


Godmother

by lcli



Category: Akatsuki no Yona | Yona of the Dawn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lcli/pseuds/lcli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dame walks into a bar. Eats, shoots, and leaves. And this ain't no panda joke. — Gangster!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Parisian Cantina

**Author's Note:**

> a long time ago in a galaxy far far away I saw a brilliant series of fanart pieces of a ganster!AU floating around tumblr. and thus this idea was inspired. unfortunately i have not seen those pictures since, which is a pity because they're amazing.
> 
> sooo here's the 20's gangster akayona au that nobody asked for. been developing it with bios, outlines, and lists of connections and interconnections. here goes nothing.

It's a slow, rainy night that drums against the bar on 4th and E—nasty little shack in the Lower District of Kouka that somehow manages to dredge up a good crowd every night. Don't have much competition. Probably the reason for its success.

The Parisian Cantina, that place is called, though it's got about as much to do with France as this story's got to do with schoolkid melodrama. Furnishings are solid and clean, even if a century past their spit-polished era. Main draw of the Parisian Cantina's always been the stage: a red, royal circle of class in the back corner of the room armed with an 1880 Steinway Grand and the jazz improvisational prodigy of the decade, Minsoo. House is packed every night thanks to that kid. Not much else to do in the Lower District 'cept listen to the genius of his hands.

Crowd's much less savory. Gangsters, prostitutes, dealers, hitmen. Some planning to kill people who are planning to kill others. You don't come to the Cantina for the company, that's sure as beans.

Still, night's young and fiesty. People come here to have a good time, not to spill blood. Air's got a tang of cigar smoke, but it's crowded with chatter and scratchy laughter. Drinks and cards and beautiful women. What a time to be alive.

Door slams open.

Whole room falls real quiet at the interruption and has a look.

Shady figure steps through the door, small by the bar's average standards, but wrapped up good head to toe in a waterlogged cloak. Not much use trying to find a face beneath that fabric, not without poking 'round. And in the Lower District, the biggest mistake a civvy can make is poking 'round where his nose don't belong.

So the piano music and the poker gets on as the newcomer slips onto the nearest barstool.

Bartender peeks beneath the hood and only smiles wide at what he finds. "Been a while, pretty dame. The usual?"

"I'll pass," says a smooth, quiet voice beneath that hood. "I've got a delivery for you."

"Don't remember ordering anything," says that bartender with a wary look.

Dame slides a manila across the table. "Here."

Bartender checks it. Cash, ten thousand solid. "What's this for?"

"The repairs," says she.

Then she whips her arm, quick as a horse's boot, to the window, triggering a shot with the eager .38 Colt 1908 Hammerless hidden up her sleeve.

Bang.

Glass explodes, hit dead-center. Showers little shards like a bride's tears on her wedding day.

Whole place erupts in screaming. Every man jumps up and runs straight for the door like the Armageddon's begun. Jazz music don't stop, though, not from the piano. Minsoo's got himself nerves of steel. Comes with working in this place for a decade. Nope; he goes right on with them augmented ninths and minor sevenths. Perfect syncopation. Could've studied at Julliard, ol' Minsoo. Julliard, or West Point.

The dame shoots again, sparks all flying from the sleek little muzzle of her burner. Bang.

Next bullet catches the leg of a real posh man trying to push his way out of the crowd. Right on the calf, intentional. He flails to the ground, a goldfish outta water. Tailcoats of his penguin suit flutter in the air as he goes down. He's dressed too nicely for a bar like this. Had a lot of girls over his lap during the night, too, though they're all gone with the gunfire.

Looks like the dame hit her target, 'cus she lowers her pistol and smiles real quiet.

"What in Kouka are you doin', Dusk?!" screeches the bartender. Bit of an act. Truth is, this kind of scene ain't rare in the Lower District, 'specially with a loopy crowd during happy hour.

"If the damage is over ten thousand," says she, "you know where to send the bill."

Meanwhile, the posh man does his genuine best to drag himself out of that shack. Disappears in the panicking crowd, but the dame don't seem concerned. Not one bit.

"Right to the Hall," she muses quietly. "Good."

She sweeps to the windowsill with the mien of a queen. Nothing but confidence in that stride of hers. Bartender's much more nervous.

"Hold on, Dusk, you can't just do this—"

"Good night, Minsoo," the dame calls to the pianist. Ignores the bartender, which ain't much of a change.

Minsoo nods without one glance up from the piano. Dedicated soul.

Then the dame turns.

Jumps out the window, carelessly, like a six-foot man with hair darker than the rain-soaked streets will come flying out of nowhere and catch her princess-like in his arms.

Well. One does.

.

.

.

Called Hak, that man is.

Goes by many names in the Underworld. Thunder Beast is one of them. Demon's another.

Yarns go far about him: that he goes 'round with an ancient Chinese weapon, 'cus guns make business too easy; that he sleeps with one eye open; that he can stop an .80 caliber with nothing but a solid glare. Some are true. Some are false. Some are thought to be false when they're actually true. When dealing with the Thunder Beast, none ever knows.

Still, one thing's sure. If Hak moves, you dead. If Hak stays still, you even deader.

Short story shorter, you dead.

In this case, the Thunder Beast's caught his princess on the corner of 4th and E, ignoring the clubbing downpour that's filtering through his Ermenegildo Zegna. Grins at the dame, though there's a pinch of grimace in it.

"Status?" says he.

"Went off without a hitch," the dame says, climbing hastily out of his arms. "Shinah should catch him right on schedule at the Hall."

"Don't mean the mission," says he, quietly. "Mean you."

Dame's already distracted. "Alive. Clearly. We need to secure the hit. Come with me?"

"Always, Princess."

Dame tears down the street like a mollycoddled thoroughbred. Thunder Beast is on the heels of her feet.

.

.

.

Dame is someone real special.

'Course, there's sacks of special people. Presidents and officers and great-aunts three times removed that need to be remembered during those holiday family functions. You can get yourself special people all the time. Gents do. And you wonder why brothels stick around, one for each penny in the Lower District.

But the dame—the dame is something else.

Dame did her time as a princess once. Lived and loved in one of those grand castles upwind of the city hall. Fourteen sweet years she spent in dresses and finery, going to parties and eating food she couldn't pronounce. Daughter of the constitutional monarchy. What a riot.

Then one day, the dame was whisked away. Plucked out of her own home.

Culprits were gangsters. Ones that needed themselves more influence. In the Underworld, there's only two ways to get influence: violence, and money. They couldn't bring themselves to do the former, so wound up with the latter. Wanted a handsome ransom for the princess of Kouka.

Got a rejection. Nothing but a cold, hard dismissal.

Turns out the royal family didn't care two beans for the princess. She wasn't the eldest son. She wasn't even their only daughter. Might as well be two pence to a wallet.

Gangsters were at a bit of a loss. Didn't think they'd get shut down. Thought the princess was worth a lot more than she actually was.

So, what'd they do?

Had to do with a bar on 4th and E, a pianist, and a mauve dress.

Well. A story to continue for another time.

.

.

.

They reach the Hall. Downtown, messy area. Not really a hall; it's an abandoned subway lined up for demolition back in the days before the city of Kouka gone to chaos.

Posh man, their target, tries to flee there on a bleeding calf. Dame and her demon don't bother rushing; they take themselves on a leisurely stroll, knowing they got all the time in the world.

After all, the mark just ends up running into the hitman.

Who's he? Well.

Hitman wears a hat angled over his beaut of golden eyes and a suit in all black to blend in the shadows like ground Italian roast. Has tattoos winding 'round his body, that one, though you ain't ever gonna know it by first glance. Got a paradox for a soul. Gentle and genteel in one moment, cold-blooded as an anvil the next. Like the Thunder Beast, he'd do anything for the dame. That ain't no hyperbole. Anything.

Who he really is—well, that's something you gotta find out yourself, after a few dates or a few years of social outings. Not that the hitman humors 'em.

Hitman has the posh man pinned to the wall in half a jiffy. With a knife through his sleeves, collar, ankle hem, waistband, and wig, that man ain't going nowhere. Pinned up like a junebug on an index card. Hitman pulls up a crate and leans against it, relaxed as can be, humming a gentle little lullaby behind his lips, golden eyes fixed on his squirming target.

"You're mad," gasps the posh man.

Hitman tilts his head quiet-like, a porcelain doll in its toybox. Says nothing.

Posh man winces, the bullet in his leg hurting like the blazes. "Tell me this," he hisses past his yellow teeth. "Who're you with? The Pirates? The Winds?"

Hitman tilts his head again. If you hush, you can swear you're hearing the tinny tone of a music box.

"You," he says, empty, "do not know."

"Well, obviously," the posh man snaps. "Why else would I be asking?"

Hitman's eyes get real cold. "You do not know her."

Posh man's face turns three shades paler than a pinch of steamed-up baby powder. "Her?" he whispers.

Clearly, even if the man don't know, he's heard murmurs 'round the network. Secret little lies about a dame with hair red as the sunset, winged by five demons from the shadows. None know her ways. None know her intent. She's a seeking bullet, that dame, 'cept she's the only one who knows her mark.

Don't make the dame any less terrifying. A lady shrouded in shadows is the only woman scarier than a fussing wife.

"Then," says the man, strangled, "you're one of them?"

But the Hitman's gone back to his little lullaby. It's a soft one. Something he listened to a thousand replays too many, back when he was brought up in the lowest of the Lower District, slums where none dared to enter a single toe.

Watching him is like watching a siren that's prepping a sashimi platter for a Tuesday special. Terrifying. Mesmerizing. Makes you wish you were home. Or anywhere but here.

"Shinah," says a soft voice from down the subway tube.

Hitman raises his head, alert. Looks left and right and left again. His gaze meets two newcoming figures from the shadows: the dame and her Thunder Beast. Posh man trembles harder in his boots.

Hitman bows his head quietly. Steps back. Dame takes his place, staring the posh man in the eye with a gaze of steaming coals.

"Hello, Hiyou," says she.

Posh man steels up a glare. "You know me?" he demands.

"To think you were right under our noses this whole time." Dame laughs. She don't sound amused. "The overlord of the nadai trade, right in the Parisian Cantina every weeknight."

"Why, you want a piece of the share?" snarls Hiyou.

Dame's face settles cold as frost. "I want," she says slowly, "the nadai trade gone."

Hiyou stares. Then belts in laughter.

" _Excuse_  me, wench. You clearly have  _no_  idea how economics work." His fear slips away like shadows on a sunny morning. "If the nadai trade ends, Kouka's going to the dogs. The income we receive barely keeps this miserable city alive!"

"I'm sure the money flow for  _you_  is extremely beneficial," Dame says drily, "but to the families who've lost members to addiction, to the citizens who've been poisoned by jealous coworkers, to the rising unemployment rate—I say that the general populace could do better without."

She's confident, but so's Hiyou. He lets his smile widen and tilts his chin forward.

"And what will you do if I decide to not comply?" says he, smooth and calm.

Dame don't budge. "Kill you. If I must."

"Hah," Hiyou grits out. "You're just a woman. You can't do anything to me."

He gathers up mucus in his throat and spits.

Dame raises her hand in a snap, catching his ball of bile on her fingers. Smirks catlike. Pushes her palm forward, smearing the mucus over his own forehead and cheeks.

Hiyou flushes, shamed. Says nothing more. Next move goes to the dame.

She can get to business if she so fancies. The Hitman's got a pretty switchblade and he's more than willing to give it up for his queen. But that ain't the dame's way.

"Maybe you aren't aware of the position you're in," says the dame slowly. She leans in, real intentional. "I thought you prided yourself on safety and intelligence. What's this, Hiyou? Why're you caught like a rat in a trap?"

Hiyou's eyes flash, but his mouth's unsteady. He don't say a word. Maybe he's learning that the dame can reflect his ammo.

"Two days ago," the dame says, "you received a death threat. You placed all your guards on high alert. You waited."

Hiyou's eyes narrow. He gets the dame's meaning. He's cocky, but he ain't slow.

"You sent it," he says. Clear.

"You celebrated too soon, sir," says the dame. Cool smile, flaming hair. "You thought the danger was over. Today, when your elite guard suddenly contracted a particularly nasty strain of the stomach virus, you didn't bother to change your... lively plans for the evening. Such carelessness."

Hiyou hisses. "That stomach flu. Also you."

Dame's smile only widens, a cracking spider web. "You should have stayed at home. But of course you wouldn't, now, would you?"

Now the dame plucks the knife from the Hitman's willing hand. She drifts the edge of the blade across Hiyou's pinned-up palm, lightly resting, no harm done—yet.

" _Happy birthday_ , sir," says she. Voice is ice. "Your thirst for festivities is your downfall."

Hiyou grimaces. Face is still coated in half-dried mucus. "You wouldn't dare. You don't have the courage."

"Are you willing to risk it?" says the dame. Raises one brow like the aristocrat she is.

Hiyou sweats.

"Let me tell you how this works. You'll agree to close off your end of the nadai trade via our contract. Understood?"

Hiyou sweats some more. He's in a sauna while pinned up on the wall.

Dame presses the blade a touch firmer into the roots of his fingers. "And. When you have something to say, make sure you've chosen wisely."

Hiyou winces.

Then opens his mouth.

.

.

.

Thing is, it ain't easy to catch the king of the biggest booming black trade in Kouka. About as easy as hunting a cheetah blindfolded in the woods with nothing but the clothes on your back.

So how do you do it?

You get a little green dragon with a tongue as glib as butter in a hot pot, a little Petri dish dotted with specimens of  _Escherichia coli_ , and a little interception at the local delivery place. Then you strike on a night of festivity, when you know that cheetah's gonna be carousing like the devil 'til dawn. After all, as festivities go, a twenty-eighth birthday's a pretty good one to strike.

If Lady Luck is on your side, you'll get yourself a cheetah within the hour.

.

.

.

The night stills in the Underground. It's quiet and lovely, the kind of sundown where you take out pantry candles and sing carols that resolve into something major in the key of C. Almost like there was never a gunslinging, never a little exchange with a knife, never nothing less civilized than a middle-of-middle-class life.

Far in the lowest of the Lower District, the slums of Kouka, there's a nasty little corner, hot and dry and full of seedy people. That corner's called the Harborough Cauldron by anyone who wants to know. It don't even warrant a name on the city map. City would like to forget that it exists.

Harborough Cauldron; not a place for dames or gents or, really, any human worth his salt. Attracts weird folk, strangers with black hearts and black souls and too many crimes to count on their scarred fingers. But it's where the dame made her place, down in the lowest corner of Harborough Cauldron, down below the potholes and the bars and brothels, down where she can dress up an underground cavern with a tablecloth and lace curtains and call it home.

Dame's there now, rocking on her rocking chair. She's sewing something on a cushion, humming between her lips. Can take the princess out of the palace, but can't take the palace out of the princess.

Thunder Beast is with her. He's the only one. Rest of the Den—that's what they call it, but, like the Harborough Cauldron, it don't have a name on no map—is empty. Happens during busy seasons.

Walls are rough, moss patches up the dirt floor, and pipes of plumbing run across the ceiling like rusty little rifles. The whole place is a giant bite carved out of limestone. Ain't no windows, and furniture's a scant few. Seven cots there are, lying scattered around the Den like hair shed from a housebred poodle, and just one rocking chair. Then the stove, a pair of cabinets, a squat little table, and a bunch of old shipping crates from Kai. And that's it. That's the Den. But it's home.

Dame's little humming ditty changes. Thunder Beast frowns when he hears it, looking up from his careful purview of the dame's .38 Colt 1908 Hammerless.

"Why are you humming that, Princess?" says he keenly.

Dame's eyes flutter behind her lids. She knows he ain't asking because he don't know.

"No particular reason," she says evasively.

He smiles wry. "Ha. Sure looks it."

Gnaws on her lip, dame does. Few can make her unsettled. Thunder Beast is one of those privileged few.

Thing is, the melody's Shinah's favorite lullaby; Shinah's only lullaby. Bit of a morbid tune. The dame recounts the lyrics, though they don't need no recounting to be worth remembering.

_"Little boy Bennie with one gold coin_  
_Thinks of fancied stuffs._  
_Golden carriage, well-good marriage_  
_With nice Middle girl he loves._

_Little boy Bennie with one gold coin_  
_Walks down to the Lower._  
_Alley rats jump on his hats_  
_And he don't move no more."_

Thunder Beast watches her all quiet as the words sing from her lips. Waits one line, waits two, waits six. Seventh line is when the dame starts to tremble. Pitch flexes on that middle part, dipping a touch too low, and her mouth widens broad and her eyes get wet.

Dame stops short. Bows her head. Thunder Beast don't budge.

"Hak," whispers she.

Dame ain't the dame no more. Dame's just Yona, twenty four years young with too many seasons of palace etiquette and smiling nice, and not enough seasons of cutting fingers off of trade lords.

"Princess," says Hak gently. He ain't the Thunder Beast no more, either.

"I hate it," says Yona. "I... I just..."

She crumples her fingers inward and shudders against her own figure. Hak moves smooth from his chair. Kneels in front of her. He don't tease her, he don't console her. He's just there.

"I wish there was another way," Yona mumbles.

Hak don't mention that cutting fingers is mercy. He don't mention that a little severing of a little digit is nothing next to a slug in the gut. He don't mention the things he's done, or what Shinah's done, all for the dame.

"How do you do it?" Yona asks. "How are you so strong?"

Hak's mouth twitches. Little grimace, little smirk. "There's different kinds of strength, Princess," says he. "The world needs yours, too."

She slows her breathing. Regains control. Tries to get back the dame. "Let's hope," she says quietly.

Hak withdraws. Goes back to his cot with the .38 Colt 1908 Hammerless. Yona leans back in her chair and keeps right on singing. This time, it ain't Shinah's lullaby.

.

.

.

Middle District. Clean, simple, ordinary. Hiyou's pacing down the street, fresh-hired guards at his flanks. All his fingers intact, but not his pride.

"Have me take down the nadai trade?" He barks laughter. "I'll show you, you little vixen. You'll wish you'd never messed with Hiyou."


	2. The Den

Three things you need to get away with whatever you want.

Wits. Guts. And Lady Luck.

At least, that's the word on the street. Just need a dash of something raw, a pinch of something fine, and a smidge of something felicitous. Folks like to say that if you're good enough, you can host yourself a tea party on the dome of the Royal Palace and hurt nothing for it.

But life ain't always so humoring.

If life were a formula, a dinky little contraption where a lad can pump in coin A and get capsule B, or pump in coin C and get capsule D, rain or shine, repeatable and measurable and all them fancy terms you learn in Science—then life would be easy and life would be predictable. Life don't seem to fancy that idea much. Easy and predictable—that ain't its image no matter what way you slice it.

So see, that's why the next week, when ol' Hiyou cashes in and wipes out his giant arm of the nadai trade, the economy of Kouka comes crashing down 'round the dame's pretty ears.

.

.

.

"Stocks a mess. Debt rising. Production and construction sluggish. Hardly _beautiful_ ; no one wants to buy anything."

New player on the board lets out a sigh for miles, curled lazy-like on the corner of his cot. Goes by many names, but the Diplomat is most common. He's got clothes as flamboyant as a flamingo, bright reds and fluorescent pinks and electric blues; don't care much for stealth, the diplomat. Was never the type to stow away in broom closets, not even when his old man was raging 'round with a hardwood switch and 0.01% BAC.

"It's only to be expected," says the dame. Frowns at the chessboard below her pale fingers. "The black market's always been a huge source of income for Kouka."

The diplomat hums assent. "Nadai. Slaves. Weapons. What else were they feeding Kai and Sei?"

"Bad manners," calls the Thunder Beast from the other side of the chessboard.

Dame rolls her eyes. "That, I severely doubt."

"Ah. Right. They would've picked that up from _us_."

Dame loses her cool for a moment and slaps him clear on the arm. Thunder Beast only grins, broad and cheeky.

"How'd the night go, Jaeha?" the dame says, turning from the chessboard. Fixes her gaze on the diplomat, clear and urgent. Diplomat swells up at the attention with a bit of preening.

"It was a wild and beautiful night, Yona dear, filled with dancing and women and beverages of the highest quality. Why, I'd never tasted such a fine tequila sunrise in my life. And the music—well, of course, you'd know how marvelous the music is at the Parisian Cantina. They just finished installing the new windows, by the way, and the bartender purchased an intriguing electric machine with the surplus income that you gave him—it blends food, almost like paint, while powered by electrici—"

"I meant the _negotiations_ , Jaeha," emphasizes the dame. Voice thick with exasperation, but none ignore the hint of fondness.

The diplomat deflates visible to make the dame laugh. She does.

"It was normal," says the diplomat. A touch sulky. "Went splendidly. From the sounds of it, the Water Tribe has completely cut off connection with the nadai chain. New startup chains are already coming together, but without the Water Tribe's support, they're bound to fail. The Awa Pirates are doing work on that front, too."

"Good," says the dame, brusque. Then softens. "I'm glad you were able to relax a little, Jaeha. You deserve it."

Diplomat blinks in a fluster. "Er. Yes. Relax, of course."

Thunder Beast eyes him. Gaze is a hawk. Snorts quick at whatever he finds.

"Droopy-Eyes here relaxed about as much as a newborn on a battlefield. That trip was all business to him."

Diplomat straightens, a deer in the headlights. Yona's brow twitches all quizzical.

"But Jaeha always spends time with women," says she. Innocent. Unjudging. And dead wrong.

Thunder Beast is Hak when he snorts. "Sure he does. Calls 'em Margarita and Gin and Mai Tai."

Yona clicks her tongue. "Really? Such poor girls, named after alcohol."

Jaeha stares.

Hak stares.

Yona stares back.

"What?" says she.

The thoughts are written plain over the men's faces. _For someone so brilliant, the dame sure can be dense._

"Let's—let's not discuss any further about the... extracurriculars of my life," says Jaeha, uncomfortable and more. "When are the others coming back?"

Yona frowns. Then dismisses any doubts. "Shinah's keeping tabs on Hiyou. He should be back tonight. Kija's men just finished up the border dispute with the Fire Tribe, so he'll come tomorrow. And Zeno..." Rook to F6 elicits a sigh. "Zeno is..."

That's when the door slams right open.

Thing is, there ain't an actual door. They're in the Den. A rough-and-hewn cavern under some creaky little pothole in the Harborough Cauldron. Doors are a luxury for normal people, people with houses on the ground, people who don't have racks of shotguns and pistols and rifles lining the walls, people who ain't the Happy Hungry Bunch. But if there were a door, it would've been blown right open, wood cracking against stone, hinges creaky with pressure, blasting wind through the cavern.

So the proverbial door slams right open, and in walks Mother Superior Yun.

He's a boy and he don't wear a habit, but he's a superior mother in every regard. Thin, sticklike limbs he has, but they're deceptive strong, currently packed with bags on bags of produce and pantry goods that you ain't ever seen this side of the Lower District. He waddles penguin-like into the Den, a mobile mountain of shopping.

"Hey, _actually strong people_ , won't someone help me with these groceries?!"

Voice is snappy and brings all members to attention, even the dame herself. Hak don't hesitate to scoop some of the burden from Yun's arms and hustle to the icebox in the slapdash kitchen. Jaeha looks real disdainful at the idea of taking orders—Jaeha always do—but only three things done he fear in the world, and the incumbent wrath of Mama Yun is one of them. So away go the groceries.

"Thank you," says Yun, prim, 'cus teaching manners is just one of a matriarch's many duties. Plops down on the rocking chair. Digs fingers in the edges of his temple, scrubbing up, down, up again, stress beading sweat on his brow.

"What happened, Yun?" says Yona.

Yun's dressed simple and calm, a fitted blazer over a button-up necked with a pinstriped bow tie, and ain't nothing that looks out of the ordinary—but his lips get real thin at Yona's query.

"Economic crashes are terrible for the grocery budget, I'll have you know," says he.

"Plenty more where that came from," Jaeha says all smooth. "Even if we do somehow run short on funds, I can _easily_ get more." This said with pride.

Yun's brow twitches odd. "It's not _convenient_. I don't like lugging the Bank of Kouka in my pocket when there's a casualty in need of some quick chicken soup."

Yona looks grave. "You mean... Zeno?"

Air stills real quick. Nothing heard but the gentle crinkle of the icebox and the soft, hurried breathing of two genius pretty boy lungs that just carried 60 pounds of groceries down a pothole.

Smile dies fast off of Jaeha's face. Hak, he never was smiling, but now he's got even less reason to.

Yun shrugs. Shrugs, but he's downright miffed. Can see it in the tension on his spine. "Yeah, Zeno. He was in the usual place. I checked up on him."

Some noise leaves Yona's throat. Clearly an attempt at the forming of a coherent sentence, something with a subject and an object and a verb. She stops short. Tries again. Hak ghosts his hand over her shoulder.

"Is he dead?" says Hak. Blunt.

"No," says Yun. Also blunt.

Weight in the room sheds off, a rattlesnake outta season. Yun don't seem any happier, though.

"He had a fever for a little bit, but it didn't take long to break, and the wound's all patched up. He's tough as nails. Honestly."

Hak chuckles. Ain't got humor in it. "Well. That's sure Zeno. Unkillable kid."

"Unkillable, stars above." Yun grinds his teeth, two millstones on a chainsaw. "Third time this week he's gotten shot, and he just bounces right back. There's bound to be more holes than tissue in his body at some point."

"At least they're always grazes," says Yona, soft. "They should heal quickly. Did he say what happened?"

Yun shrugs rough. "He says that he was just checking up on the government's response to the economic crisis. Apparently he dug into something he wasn't supposed to."

Yona don't groan. Surely every bone in her pretty little body is begging for her to groan, but still, she don't. Ain't time for groaning in the undergut of Kouka—only action.

"Just _what_ is Zeno discovering that he keeps getting shot?" mutters she. Stands quick to her feet, pulls her wrap tighter around her shoulders. "Enough. I'll have to speak with him directly."

"No need," says Yun. "He's coming here."

She stares. Definitely disbelieving. No gaping jaw, nothing like that—but one raised eyebrow does the trick. "Zeno is coming here. Right after a fever. And a gunshot wound."

Yun smiles dry. "Like you said, Yona. It was just a graze."

.

.

.

Secrets are dangerous things 'round these parts.

Risk enough to hide your life from your boss and a handful of coworkers in a humdrum 9-to-5. But from your boss and a handful of coworkers in the undergut of Kouka, from hard-trained hitmen and biggety gang lords with five pints of pent-up anger? Might as well get to a butcher and beg him to chop you up for sale.

See, Zeno told the truth to all his friends at the Happy Hungry Bunch, but it sure wasn't all of it.

Said he was named after St. Zeno. Gets teased for it every time they pass on Clementine Street and Louisa Boulevard in the Middle District—that intersection where there's a simple and hearty little convent that calls itself St. Zeno's Parish and Rectory. Hey, Zeno, there's your house. Hey, Zeno, you got yourself a pretty nice garden.

Said he works for the government. Desk job, high up, good access to info that don't reach a lot of ears. It's why he's one of the dame's chosen elite. When you a secretary, a real important one, someone posh and fancy who don't work too far below the monarchs, you learn all kinds of things that don't make it into the classroom textbooks.

Said he was married. This one's hard to swallow, 'cus he's got the face of a cherub and the caprice of a virgin. They ask how young, was it matchmade, are his parents from Kai or Sei or something because why the youth, what happened to her. He only smiles blithe, says they made the choice together, says that she died ill. Ain't no more questions after that.

Here's the thing.

Everything Zeno done said, all of it, is only half the story. Got enough secrets to fill a harbor during fishing season, that kid.

Want a little hint?

His bullet wounds ain't grazes.

.

.

.

Shinah gets back before Zeno. Bleeds into the room like a shadow at the crack of dawn. Fedora's tipped gentle over his eyes as he steps past Jaeha's cot. He's smooth and spiderlike, dual pistols laid flat in his palms as he passes 'em to Hak. Jaeha's quiet in a catnap, else he'd be fawning over Shinah's eyes like a country doll in Hollywood.

"Lunch?" says Yun sharply, to which Shinah shakes his head.

Yun clicks his tongue. Flings a riceball dead-center at Shinah's chest.

Shinah catches it, easy as pie. Has to, of course. Ain't no hitman worth his salt if his reflexes're too poor to catch some food, even if it's thrown by Mama Yun.

Yona's all business. She's done with the chessboard, been done a while; now prefers her real chessboard, the one with alleys and gangs and a nice, big map of Kouka. Raises a brow clear at Shinah as he curls deep in his cot, munching all dainty on the riceball like a squirrel.

"What's the news on Hiyou?" says she.

Shinah looks up. "He has shut down the nadai trade. There are many companies becoming bankrupt. Hiyou is purchasing them. Risky investments."

"Risky, but they'll probably pay off. Hiyou's an entrepreneur if I've ever seen one." Yona purses dainty lips. "He's going to succeed. Then he'll reach deep for influence and build up his assets."

Hak looks up. Still greasing the pistols. "Then go after you."

"He'll try. But I doubt you'll let that happen." She smiles something calm. She ain't worried, not one whit.

Hak returns to his pistols. He don't seem happy, but he don't say a word.

"Yona," says Shinah softly. "The economic crash. What shall we do?"

He ain't asking 'cus the Happy Hungry Bunch is hard off. Eight years of building an empire in the undergut of Kouka earns you a pretty penny and more. The dame could buy whatever she fancied with barely a cat-scratch in the budget. But the Bunch ain't here to play rich.

"We," says Yona, broad smile, glint in the eye, "are going to spend money. Frivolously."

Jaeha jerks wide awake at that. Seems his presence is always called at the mention of a lively time. "Do my ears betray me?" says he. Sits up straight. "Did Yona dear just call for _frivolous spending_?"

"Your drool's showing," says Hak, irritated. Snaps out his leg and catches Jaeha right in the jaw. Jaeha goes down.

"Careful for this face, Dark Dragon," Jaeha teases. "This face makes a lot of negotiations."

"Cut it out, kids," shouts Yun from over the stove burner. "Yona's still talking."

Hak snorts and leans against the crusty wall.

"Yes, Jaeha, we'll be spending money frivolously," says Yona. "We need to stimulate the economy. Flood the markets with commerce. During a depression, people are scared to spend money, and that worsens the economy. So we'll need to do the opposite."

"Ain't that just a theory?" says Hak, skeptical.

"Time to find out," says Yona cheerily. "Now, anyone want to go to the amusement park?"

.

.

.

Mama Yun don't seem to fit in his current company. Ruffians, thugs, conmen. No place for a nagging mother hen who looks like he ain't ever set foot out of the Middle District.

But he has. Oh, he has.

Born and abandoned by the roadside when he was just a babe—that's Mama Yun. His birther was a prostitute, one who loved him near as much as she hated him. Hid him as long as she could, then when her belly swelled too much, ran from the brothel, a gazelle on asphalt.

Found an orphanage in the Lower District who would take him—something humble and dainty and planted by a Brother from St. Zeno's Parish and Rectory. Wasn't the best shot, but it was the best that Yun's mama had to offer. Left the babe there; no note, no memoir, no souvenir. Life was the first and last gift that the woman gave to Mama Yun.

So there he aged up, surrounded by gangs, gunslingings, and other children.

Most might boil up in a seething mess. Most might hog every bit of happiness. Most might fight for scraps and hand-me-downs and the love of their ditzy blonde Father who trips over his own feet more than he walks straight.

Not so, Mama Yun.

Found in his heart that an ordinary nonage wasn't in the cards; he far preferred to follow the Father around on the household scutwork. Had a knack for it, too. Learned cooking and bandaging and fifty ways to tie a knot real quick. Kept love in his heart and his hands.

Maybe Mama Yun is the strongest of 'em all.

.

.

.

Brief side effect of economic depressions: recreational sites are real empty.

The place is a ghosthouse. A real shocker for a quality park. Ain't one soul behind those towering gates of dotted, colored lights and golden-barred fencing. Front entrance is a work of art—pillars ten times a man's height, filigree decor inlaid on every wall for miles, chandeliers and other fancy can-do lighting fixtures, everything sparkling like dew in the dawn. There's big letters carved out of something electric, fixed at the very top of the entrance booths: WELCOME TO ARCADIA WORLD PARK.

Place was meant to be an escape from the world, a dreamland fantasy. Some refuge from the mundane and the preordained. Look at it now. Nothing but an abandoned cove of treasures set on the outskirts of Kouka. Civvies who were frolicking around just the past week decided to clam up their capital. Sudden economic crashes got a way of doing that.

Sad news, really, that the Gilded Age of Kouka's parks goes tumbling down from nothing more than a sneeze in the Underground.

But not so, not today. The dame's more than ready to shell out a pretty penny to get the park to herself for one day. Buys hundreds of tickets, a whole roll of them. After all, civvies tend to talk if they see the gangs rolling aboveground. Dame don't want any distractions.

Not like those tickets would be sold anyway—not today.

The Bunch finds a familiar face waiting by the gate. He's loose in a pinstriped suit, with long, yellow hair tied back in a half-do. Has sparkles for eyes as he waves to the gang with the pep of a puppy in a slaughterhouse.

"Zeno!" Yona gasps.

"Good morning," sings he. "How's everyone doing?"

Gang falls silent. See, here's the thing—when Zeno raised his arm to wave the morning's courtesy, he showed his ribs. Not usually an issue. Only is an issue if there's a gaping hole in the side hem of his CoCo Chanel button-down. Which there is. Shows a strip of office-pale porcelain skin, right where his ribs meet his chest.

Zeno notes their gazes. "Oh, this? Zeno's fine," he chirps.

" _Fine_. Saints alive." This from Yun. He ain't shocked, of course, 'cus he was seeing to Zeno earlier in the day. That don't mean that he ain't mad.

Jaeha whistles low. "That should have been a direct hit to your spleen."

"How did you survive this?" says Hak, sharper than a jack knife.

Zeno sticks his hands in his pockets and slouches easy against the nearest wall. Looks warm and calm and mystery incarnate, like the sea on a cloudy night. "Zeno is lucky," chirrups he.

Gang don't buy it for a second. Too many of them lie too regularly not to recognize one when they see it.

"Lucky," echoes Shinah. Even he sounds skeptical.

"That's dross and you know it," says Hak.

"Sometimes, things are true whether you believe it or not," says Zeno. Shrugs. "Zeno was lucky. That's the truth."

Another half-truth, but they don't need to know that. No sirree.

Yona's eyes swivel in her sockets, darting from Shinah to Jaeha to Hak to Zeno to Yun. Last thing she needs is doubt among her men. She ain't bothered by Zeno's flighty fibs; everyone's got secrets, and she knows that he's loyal enough—he would die for her in half a heartbeat. But dame or no dame, their arena is still the undergut of Kouka, and like a house of cards, trust is quick to fall at a tinier than tiny exhale.

So feigns ignorance, she does. It's her way. Just like she feigned ignorance with Jaeha to keep the status quo.

Guess that's another secret that needs to lie.

"So!" chirps Yona. Claps her hands, all lively. "What should we try first?"

Jaeha's hand shoots in the air, quick as can be. "I call for a competition," he says smoothly.

Thing is, Jaeha don't care much for competitions. Well, not most of them, anyhow. But his eye's on Hak with one smidge of a teasing grin at his lips. Knows the Dark Dragon can't resist a deadly gamble, 'specially when it comes to the dame.

Hak raises an eyebrow at Jaeha. He ain't stupid, that's sure as the tide. "What kind of competition?" says he, slow and dangerous.

Jaeha grins. "Oh, I don't know. How about a shooting contest? Get to the top of the Ferris wheel, and whoever manages to pop the head of the Fire Tribe's godfather scores a free meal."

"Jaeha!" cries Yona. Downright appalled, really. "We're at an amusement park."

"So? Isn't an _amuse_ ment park supposed to _amuse_ us?"

"It's a civilian recreation site, not a random pocket in the Underground."

"All the world is the exact same, Yona dear." This said wry. "Some places are just dressed up a bit more."

Yona ain't impressed. "Pick another kind of competition," says she. "I'd feel bad if we shed blood from the very spot known for affectionate couple activity."

"What, the top of the Ferris wheel? But nothing is more romantic than blasting the head off of your loved one's enemy~!"

"How about," Yun cuts in, "seeing who can spin the fastest on the teacups?"

"Laaaaaame," Jaeha coughs.

Zeno bounds forward. "Zeno recommends the parachute jump!" says he. "Whoever is brave enough to go can win!"

Parachute jump. The very mention would get a normal man quivering in his boots. Two hundred and half a hundred feet of cold, hard steel, looming clear over bedspring shock absorbers. The top, the pinnacle, the glory, has twelve arms shooting out like petals on a lotus flower, each dangling an armful of cables and a single parachute with a two-rider harness. Crazy for a civvy. Clean entertainment for the Underground.

"Then we'd all win," Jaeha protests. "No one here is scared of heights."

Everyone gives a little side-eye to Shinah. When he's the Hitman, he flutters 'round the rooftops like a hummingbird. Word goes that he scaled down all 100 storeys of the Southbelle Tower to make an escape after a clean hit job. To him, it don't matter if a beam is ten feet or ten thousand feet above the ground. So long as he can breathe right.

Grin spreads wide over Zeno's face, like eagles' wings. "Not all of us," says he. "Look who's joining the party."

Gang turns to where Zeno's shooting his fast and easy smirk.

Tall, lanky figure there is, gray suit-coat billowing 'round his hips as he jogs forward. Has three guns hinged on his belt and two knives holstered to his thighs, but he's waving frantic, body alive with excitement like a baby chick coming to feed. Key thing is his hair: white and shiny silk, flowing in ribbons from his scalp like a piñata at a princess party. He looks polished. Refined. Belongs at a socialite wine tasting, not a mobster's funfair.

"Oh dear," says Yona gravely. "Poor Kija."

.

.

.

Kija. That's his name. That's always been his name, even back when he was born in the uppity Upper District, born to a well-to-do corporate family as the first son. Had two older sisters, but they don't count for nothing. Women ain't ever mattered, not to the Upper District.

Family wanted him to be sharp. Strong. Ruthless. His father was the chief executive officer of some esteemed, expensive, emphatic institute. So was his father before him. Kija had to keep that chain going on and on—bear that burden even while his head was full of stories rather than numbers, loyalty rather than manipulation; a born and bred follower, not a leader.

Kija. What a name. Thought of leaving it behind, he did, many times at that. Ditch it in the dust like the shackles of his family expectations when he ran to the military. His family was more riled than a ring of bulls on a midsummer afternoon when they found out he was gone. They decided they was done with his failures. Done with him, period. Just like that, his record was washed out of the family register. All hopes and all eyes turned to the second and final son, the only boy among five sisters. The uppity world of the Upper District was as if Kija had never been born.

Maybe that's why Kija kept his name. It's the last thing he's got from his past, really. The only momento from seventeen years of misery.

Pity, it is. Kija. The dame's general for fieldwork. A real fine soldier and captain. That boy deserved a lot more when he was growing up.

Too bad the world don't ever give what people deserve.

.

.

.

Gang meets back at the entrance just a tad dressed down. All jackets been stripped in favor of button-up shirts with sleeves rolled to the elbows. Zeno's the exception. No more holes in his clothes; he's nabbed an ARCADIA WORLD PARK crew neck from the nearest souvenir booth. Now has a beauty of a lime green shirt to go with his dress-up black tie.

"Well, then," says Yona. Smiles like the sun. "I guess it's time to have some fun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bunch of gangsters at an amusement park. what could possibly go wrong.
> 
> next chapter includes but is not limited to: parachutes, a gunshot, and suwon. hope you're all enjoying so far.


	3. Arcadia World Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be honest, when i was writing this story, i knew it wouldn't be popular. the premise was too foreign, the prose too strange. for most readers, there wouldn't be enough romance, and action would take too long to develop. it's a very odd story for the akayona fandom. but i still set out to write this story, because above all, i wanted to.
> 
> and turns out, to the few who like this story, they're the best reviewers on the planet. i'm so thankful for each and every one of you. i feel like you're so passionate and heartfelt that your reviews make up for ten thousand reviews - seriously, i'm so grateful for the support.
> 
> i will unapologetically keep the story how i envisioned it. keep the ain'ts and don'ts where there should be doesn'ts and was where there should be were. i will keep it with a slow burn romance and a touch of political drama. i will keep it boring for the majority of the fandom. that's fine; no one is forcing you to like it. but i hope that the ones who do will really, really love it.
> 
> y'okay, enough sap and on to the chapter.

Fun comes with many faces and just as many names.

There's relaxation. Thrill. Spontaneity. Optimism. There's fun when you land a potshot that you hadn't landed in your wildest dreams; there's fun when you nick a wallet from a rude old blueblood; there's fun when you breathe in deep as the sun rises lively in the sky and the air is still crisper than a spanking new Benjamin Franklin. There's teasing. Frugality. Imagineering. All sorts of fun.

Then there's the Bunch's favorite: Danger.

Thing is, everyone in the Bunch has his own little danger-drug. For the diplomat, it's heights. Wouldn't spend a moment on the ground if he ever got himself a pair of wings. For the hitman, it's combat: back-and-forth, sparks jittering, the ever-present possibility of death and damage. For the spider—the cheery, bright-eyed government worker who handles too many strings of confidential information to stay healthy and whole—it's toeing the line to see just how deep he can poke the bees' nest before he's pierced with venom.

For the captain with a name... there's many dangers that are his drug, but one of them is not so.

Heights.

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"I'm going to diiiiiieeeeee, Yona!"

"Don't be such a baby, White Snake. At least it'd be quick."

"Not helping, you beast!"

"Kija, they've run this ride thousands of times. I'm sure we'll be fine."

"You too, Mama Yun?!"

"Ooh, I think I'm feeling a little breeze! I wonder what would happen if the tower toppled over."

"STOOOOOP IIIIIT, JAEHAAAA!"

The fearsome captain, the man whose rumors alone inspire raw terror, looks real close to tears as he's strapped into the parachute next to Hak. On the field, he's perfect in a pinch and under pressure. Gives his orders coolly, navigates his men with nary an issue, fires a crack shot with his pistol when the need calls. But there's a different side to the captain, and it's one that loves theatrics.

Right now, captain's doing a mighty fine impression of a kid girl with her dolls taken away.

"How high are we?" says he faintly. "One hundred miles? One thousand?"

"Two hundred and fifty feet," says Yun. Ain't no sympathy from him. Just realism. There's a need for moms like that, too.

Kija groans. "That's two hundred and forty feet above my comfort zone."

"Then get off," says Hak all gruff. Elbows Kija sharp in the side. The force gets Kija to pivot a bit in his harness. Motion's barely there, but the general still clutches at his straps in abject terror.

"I want to get down!" he yells. "Or—or at least change parachutes! I don't want to share one with Hak!"

"You can come share with Zeno," sings the blonde in the adjacent 'chute. He's alone in his two-person harness. Agreed to be alone, since the party's an odd number.

Kija perks up a bit. Hak grips him by the scruff of the neck. A kitten swaying from a dangerous pair of jaws.

"No," says Hak. "White Snake here needs to get over his little angst."

"You wouldn't be saying that if I were Yona!" Kija protests hot.

"You're not Yona," says Hak. Unmoved. "In fact, the real Yona's right over there. And she ain't having any problems."

Yona smiles, all sympathy for her terrified general. Raises a hand in acknowledgment. Tilts her head princess-like, naturally, not even knowing she's doing so. "Sorry, Kija. The employees already went through the trouble of pulling us up." She nods at the employees. Gives them the signal that they can start at any moment.

"I thought that rides were supposed to be fun," mumbles Kija. If his boots was on the ground, he'd be shaking in them.

"Then... don't... look down," says Shinah. Slow and practical. He and Jaeha are in the same 'chute, both of them equally fearless.

"Imagine that this is one of those vehicles you love to pilot," adds Jaeha. "Except, instead of going sideways, you're going downwards."

"I can avoid walls! I can't avoid the ground!"

"Oh, honestly." Yun, strapped in with Yona, swings a hand at the underside of the 'chute with a sigh. "Look at the parachute. It's in perfect condition. Even if we fell right at this moment, we would be totally fine."

"Unless," says Hak flatly, "they sabotaged it."

Pale Kija goes paler. "Unless they _what_ —"

And that's when the operators of ARCADIA WORLD PARK spring off the mechanisms and the 'chutes are released.

Ain't ever heard a snake scream?

Well. If you was there that day, you would have.

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.

.

Back in the heart of the heartless city, a trim man with soft gold hair stands erect by a sheet of panels that display the most jaw-dropping view of Kouka. This view is provided courtesy of the Royal Family, see. Ain't nothing like spit-polished panes of glass in the palace to give you an appreciation for the city. Or to get you to pay higher taxes.

Double doors at the end of the hall open wide. They're plated in lovely little engravings of beheadings and conquests and all other symbols of ancient civilization. Pity that no one gets to see all the work that went into those doors.

"Ah, Suwon," says a fancy man who sweeps himself into the chamber, wearing red, red robes. "Prompt, as per usual."

The figure by the windows turns with an easy smile. Something about it ain't right if you look close, but no one ever looks close.

"Afternoon, Your Majesty."

Fancy man, His Majesty the King, pulls to a gradual, deliberate stop next to Suwon. "You've come regarding the recession, I presume."

"You presume correctly, Your Majesty." Still smiling, Suwon is. "As you projected, the crash of the black market has led to several... difficulties."

"Difficulties indeed."

"Nothing that cannot be remedied."

To all other ears and eyes, this exchange is a simple, amicable one. Something between long-time allies or comrades for life. But them other ears and eyes—they're naive. They don't know how things work in the Underground.

"What do you suggest?" says the king. Offers dominance of the conversation to Suwon.

"A revolutionary tactic that some may deem an act of insanity," replies Suwon. Tries to drive that dominance further by making the king work to get the answer—he's raising the intrigue of his idea.

"Sounds concerning." King ain't biting. Draws back the dominance. Tries to get Suwon to explain himself, make him work for approval.

"The city is already in a concerning state." Suwon plays his trump card, fast and early. After all, he ain't the one who's in charge of all Kouka.

King looks him dead in the eye. Silence.

"Then... what is this 'revolutionary tactic' of which you speak?" King's acceding. Desperate times, after all. Power plays are for another day. Another day where you ain't in such a bad spot that your smartest ally is the head of one of the largest gangs in Kouka.

Suwon don't smile in triumph. Power's hard-won, and easy to blow out the moment your head swells a millimeter too big. "I suggest, Your Majesty, that the government prints more tender."

King stamps down his flicker of surprise. "Print _more_? Kouka's economy is demented enough. You want to introduce inflation into the picture?"

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I believe that this would not actually foster inflation—not severely, that is." Suwon's words are easy, smooth, something that sounds like liquid honey. Persuasion's always been his strong suit.

"How so?"

"One of the signs of a flourishing economy, Your Majesty, is a moving cash flow. When people spend and receive, buy and sell, money is constantly flowing through the system. Much like the human body, Your Majesty, good circulation is a sign of good health—in this case, a good circulation of money is a sign of good health of the economy. This is because it shows a strong balance of supply and demand."

King nods shortly. "And?"

"In a recession, things change." Suwon turns to the windows, hands clasped behind his back. "People are scared to spend, so demand falls. This upsets the balance. Circulation begins to stall because no one is buying; they are only willing to sell. Money stops flowing."

"All because the citizens stop spending."

"Yes. Fear is the enemy here, not even the decrease in income from the black market."

King's thinking hard now, really entertaining this idea. "So, you think that if we print money, then it won't cause inflation, but essentially, simulate the cash flow that is currently missing?"

Now Suwon grins. "Precisely."

"Furthermore, with this theory, if we do _not_ print money, it would lead to _deflation_ , not stability. Correct?"

"Indeed."

"Most interesting." King gathers his robes. Eyes are sharp. "You have my gratitude for bringing this to our attention. I shall discuss it with Parliament."

King sweeps out of the Royal Hall with grandeur. Suwon's shown out by the guards, but even as he gets dirty looks from every nook and cranky, he's smiling. He knows that the king's already sold—hook, line, and sinker.

Only one thing left to do for the godfather of the Sky Tribe.

Spend money. Frivolously.

.

.

.

If you wrote a book on everything the world knew 'bout Suwon, it'd be blanker than a snowstorm on a white canvas.

Same is true here.

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.

Night's falling on the amusement park. Dame and her gents have been frolicking to and fro for no less than ten hours. Last event of the day draws to the shooting booth. 'Course it does. Ain't no other way to end a day when you've got five men vying for the attentions of one lady—'specially when you're from the undergut of Kouka.

Currently, the targets are a swarm of unfortunate balloons, all pinned up in bright colors in individual cubbies. Each of the five men—and one lady—is standing at a line drawn one hundred yards back, handguns clasped easy in their fingers. Ain't no toy burners for this little soirée. They ain't supposed to be a hundred yards back, either, just ten—but you don't tell the mafia how to run a shooting game if you want to keep your head.

Attendant's cleared out of there, knowing a chance to scram when he sees it. In his place, in that little booth set off to the side, stands Yun, calm as can be. A normal man would call him crazy, his frontal lobe down a ditch to Hades. Ain't so. A mama knows the capabilities of her kids.

"Draw your marks," booms Mama Yun, loud and clear.

Five gents and one lady draw up their pistols tight together like a routine of synchronized swimming.

"If we wanted this to be fair, Shinah should really be standing further back," Jaeha mutters outta the corner of his mouth.

"Lost confidence in your arm, Droopy-Eyes?"

"I _am_ a diplomat."

"You were a Pirate once, Jaeha."

"Even then, Kija, I was a diplomat."

"But you can't get by the Underground without being a crack shot to _some_ extent."

"I never was completely able to—hold on, you're a _field captain_. You should be standing back with Shinah!"

"There's... still... Hak."

"Shinah's right, little one. Zeno thinks that you should just take a few steps forward!"

"As if I would actually resort to such cowardice..."

"Ain't nobody stopping you but yourself, Droopy-Eyes."

Mama Yun cracks his knuckles against the booth like a thunderclap. "Are we actually going to have a shooting match, or should I bring some jasmine leaves and little pink teacups? Stars above, with all the time you guys are taking, I could bake some _scones_ while I'm at it."

"Sorry, Mama Yun," chorus the children in unison, and all eyes are back on the balloons, honed and deadly.

"On your mark," says Yona sheepishly.

Yun snorts and laces his fingers as he leans on the booth, acting like some premier judge at a music contest. "On my mark indeed. Targets drawn?"

Nothing but silence for a reply. Raises the tension. Gets the competition stirring.

Yun smiles quiet. Bit of darkness to his grin, just a bit. "Load."

All hammers cocked; radiates a single, uniform _click_ that echoes nicely in the park.

"And."

Waiting.

"Fire."

 _BLAM_ go the guns, bullets roaring outta their muzzles like dragonfire, and _BANG_ go the balloons, ripping up the air with rubber confetti, fluid and rhythmic like the magnum opus of some dog-dead composer.

Guns all lower in unison. Mama Yun waits for the confetti to settle before he gives the count.

"All targets hit. Twenty-five yards back."

They're big balloons, but it's still an accomplishment. Secret smiles all around as attendants scramble to reset the scene before making themselves scarce.

"Draw your marks. Load. Fire."

 _BLAM._ Only five bullets find their balloons this time. All pairs of eyes swivel in Zeno's direction.

"Oh dear," says he all casual. "Looks like office work might be getting the best of Zeno!"

Steps out with grace. Bit too prepared, bit too easy. Almost like he'd slipped his hand to keep his shooting under the radar. But no one in the Bunch thinks of that—not now, when they're at their happiest and their most oblivious.

Stage is reset, and Yun gives the countdown. One hundred and fifty yards. Times are tough.

 _BLAM._ Yona misses by half a smidge. So does Jaeha. No sore feelings there; one hundred and fifty yards is more than enough for the twisting alleys of Kouka. They step out.

One hundred and seventy-five yards. _BLAM._ Three still neck to neck.

Two hundred yards. _BLAM._ Hak barely sits in the running with a grazing pop. Even Kija's center starts to waver, just a tad.

Two hundred fifty yards. _BLAM._ Hak bows out with a near miss. Kija and Shinah still in.

Hak draws near to Yona the moment he's set down his pistol and is out of the danger zone. "A word, Princess," says he.

"You have it," says Yona. Voice is softer. "Always."

 _BLAM_ in the background. Three hundred yards and counting.

.

.

.

All's fair in war.

That's how the saying goes, don't it?

Ain't that it?

.

.

.

"What's wrong?" says Yona the moment they done step around the corner. Fingers flitter by her right hip, resting light over cold steel hidden in the folds of her skirts.

"Ease. Nothing around," says Hak calmly. "Just got a question for you, Princess."

This makes her silent for half a jiffy. She sees Hak's tall shadow splayed over the wall, catches eye of his rigid spine, too much unsaid and half as much undone.

"And where's this question coming from?" says she, careful.

He don't answer. Not that question, at least.

"You like holding that gun, Princess?"

"It's a nice one, I suppose. Good balance. Good weight."

"You know my meaning."

"And you know mine."

Hak don't say anything for a spell. "Ain't no one that can stop you from protecting your family," says he. "Or so you think."

"And you're the same. We all protect each other."

"But ain't you ever thought of leaving?"

This plumb surprises Yona. First time in a long time that Hak's caught her off guard, real off guard.

"Why in Kouka would I ever want to leave?" demands she.

"Could always go back. Got power, Princess. Lots of it. Might not want to leave, but might need to."

"Go back for what? For endless simpering suitors who just want the throne? For a life in a ballroom, where my shoes might as well be shackles and the walls might as well be iron bars? For a prison away from prison?" Yona's eyes flash something fiery. "I've never been happier than I am now, Hak. I've never been more free."

Hak's quiet for two moments. "Didn't ask if you wanted to. Asked if you'll need to."

Confusion splits her frown. "Do you... know something?"

"Know nothing." Answer's smooth. Too smooth. Maybe Yona notices, maybe she don't. Either way, she accepts it.

She laughs, a touch harsh. "Even if they need me, I'm not going back to royalty. That's the last thing I want."

"Sacrifices ain't called sacrifices 'cus you want 'em, Princess."

Bit of a shadow flickers in her eyes. Something of a heavy burden. "It's my job to get rid of the need for sacrifices, Hak," says she. "There's always a better way."

"Think you can get perfection in this twisted world, Princess?" Hak hovers closer. Looming over her now, pressing her back into the fencing. Something's a little darker in his faint smile, something a touch too bitter. "Think that as long as someone tries their best, hopes enough, throws themselves at a wall once and twice and three times—everything will turn out dandy?"

"Hak," says Yona evenly, but the nails of her fingers are tight against the wood.

Hak draws back. Breathes between his teeth. Less of a shadow and more of a man, all in the blink of an eye. Sheet falls over his eyes and suddenly he's blanker than a fresh springtime petal.

He smirks. He's familiar that way. Friendly. But veiled.

"Never you worry, Princess," drawls he. "Only sacrifice your men have been through is listening to your voice."

Yona huffs for show. "I resent that, Hak!"

They share a smile, a little one. Hak glances out, back to the shooting ring. Kija and Shinah are sitting now, cross-legged and easy on the ground, cleaning up their beloved burners speedy-like. Looks like the contest is over.

Hak's eyes drift to Yona. He jerks his head. Corner of his mouth is pulled higher than the rest of it.

"After you, Princess," says he.

The exchange's forgotten. Considered forgotten, that is. Exchanges like that ain't ever truly forgotten.

.

.

.

Here's an interesting little addition to a tale that you think you know.

So, ten years ago, there's this fourteen-year-old princess, a girl with red hair and bright eyes and shallower sentiments than low-tide on the beach. She lives up in the Royal Palace, spending every day curtsying away her worries.

One night falls where the shadows snatch her up. Shadows with names. Shadows from gangs.

Shadows that need money, need it fast, 'cus discontentment is swirling in the undergut of Kouka.

To be specific, there was two shadows that spirited the princess away. One of 'em was a Thunder Beast. Deadly as night, just as quiet, and scared the life outta the princess when she first saw him, tall and looming and dressed like the grim reaper straight from a storybook. Makes you wonder how the beast and his beauty got to where they is today.

The other one, the other shadow...

Well. A tale for another time.

.

.

.

The Bunch finds themselves famished after spending the day frolicking about. When the sky's dark and gates are closed, they return to the city, hitting the grocer that sits right between the Lower and Middle Districts.

Dangerous place, that border. Looks clean and bright, just like what the Middle District is proud of, but carries all the hidden snags and grudges that come from the Lower District. Have to keep your heads up in that place, or you'll be on an express trip down the river Styx.

Currently, the Bunch is fawning over the sweets aisle like a handful of tykes in Halloween season.

"Oh please, Yun, please, just one bag?"

"You had chocolate last week, Zeno. Too much and your teeth will fall out."

"But chocolate is good for Zeno!"

"And Kija!"

"Unless you're an alien from Mars, no. It really isn't."

" _Peppermints_ are obviously a much better choice."

"Peppermint may be good for you, Jaeha, but peppermint candy is not."

"Choice's obvious, then. We got ourselves some ice cream."

" _Put it back, Hak, so help me Saint Zeno._ "

"Saint Zeno also liked chocolate."

"Zeno, I doubt Saint Zeno had any— _Yona what are you doing._ "

"Me? I'm just—looking."

"With your hands."

"Well, yes. I suppose."

"Well, stop looking at those popsicles and start looking at your wallet. Mainly, how much we've spent today."

"Yona dear _did_ say that we were supposed to spend frivolously."

It is at this point that Mama Yun loses his last scrap of patience and throws up his hands. "Stars above, children, close your eyes before they get any bigger than your stomach! Do I need to remind you what happened the day after Halloween?"

Six wincing pair of eyes. "No, Mama Yun."

The day after Halloween. To every child worth his salt, it was a day of victory beyond compare. Twenty and four hours of gorging on spoils of a war hard-fought with the natural weapon of Puppy Eyes. To the Bunch, who could ransack entire black markets chock full of cocoa and sour bites and gummies and sorbet? The gluttony became infirmity within two blinks of the right eye. Miles of sweets, all stuffed in the space of a single day. It's a miracle that the Bunch don't hate sweets after that.

"Let's head to the checkout," says Mama Yun, a bit gentler. "I'll let you pick out a _smaller_ sweet from there."

Faces light up all around, as if the Bunch haven't eaten their lion's share of cotton candy and popcorn at the funfair throughout the whole day. Lining up like ducklings, they tromp behind Mama Yun to the grocer's counter.

That's when things turn... feisty. Lots of little things happen, all at the same time, turning into one big thing.

First. Doors of the grocer's slam right open, hinges cracking like lightning.

Second. A blur of a man zooms through the store. Dives into the nearest aisle.

Third. A rowdy coterie bangs in right after, dressed to the disheveled nines in pinstriped suits and fedoras, ragged at the edges from some earlier fisticuffs.

Fourth. Screaming. Lots of it. From the clerk, from the customers, from the coterie.

"You stay where you are, Fire rat, or we'll blow this place!"

_Bang._

They fire one gunshot. Just one, outta standard pistol. Goes wide, hits a stand of bananas. Bananas get tumbling to the ground like a troupe of acrobatic clowns.

Takes just that one gunshot for the whole Bunch to draw up right 'round the dame. It's as smooth as a routine: beast at the back, spider at the front, hitman and mama at the left, captain and diplomat at the right. Dame's eyes flash to the beast, on instinct. Always on instinct.

"Hak. Those are some of Geuntae's men. Did something happen between the Fire Tribe and the Earth Tribe?"

Thunder Beast looks to the diplomat. Diplomat shakes his head. So does the spider.

"Nothing. So far as we know."

"They're chasing down a Fire," murmurs the dame. "But why?"

"Heukchi." Surprise. It's the hitman who speaks.

"Sorry?" says the dame.

"His name... Heukchi. From the... Fire Tribe."

No time for questions, no time to ask how he knows what the diplomat and the spider don't. Dame accepts it.

"Do you know why the Earth Tribe is after him?"

Hitman shakes his head, quiet and smooth. Dame nods curtly. Starts balancing risks and priorities in her head like a seasoned corporate officer.

"This store has no back exit. Heukchi's going to try dodging them in the aisles, which means involving all the citizens."

Snaps her head to the mama and the captain.

"Yun, get the innocents to safety. Kija will go with you. He has the best sense in navigating groups of people thanks to his task force."

Mama and the captain tip their hats and speed off.

Dame looks to the hitman and the diplomat. "I need to know if an altercation's risen between the Earth Tribe and the Fire Tribe. Think you can do that while covering for Yun and Kija?"

"Easy as pie, Yona dear," says the diplomat. Throws in a wink that's three parts fabulous and one part dangerous. All the women fall for it. All except the dame.

As they run off, the dame turns to the spider and the beast. Stills for a moment. Spider is poised, ready to race at the dame's command. Ain't expecting the beast to be sent away, because the beast don't ever leave the dame's side. Waits one moment, waits two. Dame still don't say a word.

Another gunshot, _bang._ Some well-placed screaming for an ambient soundtrack.

"Take care of everyone, Hak," says the dame at last.

Beast only tips his hat and struts off without a word. Spider covers his shock with a faint smile.

"Now, what was that, little one?" says he quietly.

"Why?" demands the dame, a tad too quick and a tad too fiery. "Do you think I can't take care of myself without Hak to babysit me?"

Spider turns solemn. "There's a difference, miss," says he, "between needing something and wanting it. You and him make a good team. That's all."

Dame's eyes cut to the ground. "We all make a good team."

 _Bang, bang, bang,_ all 'round the place like misshapen claps of thunder. Spider instinctively throws an arm over the dame and pulls her down behind cover. Dame's hand swivels to her hip, but the spider clamps down on her fingers, shaking his head.

She gets his meaning. A potshot is like an emergency flare. Big, bright, and quick to get attention. She'd only get a horde of angry gents on her back.

So they huddle behind a bin of rice bags, sheltered by looming aisles and waiting for the go-ahead. There's more gunfire, and a lot more screaming. Dame reckons that her dragons have joined the fight. All there's left to do, really, is wa—

"Mama!"

Next few moments happen real slow.

Dame looks over. Sees a little boy, fresh in second, third grade, maybe, with short-cropped tufts of black hair sticking out of his scalp like untrimmed weeds on a Sunday morning. He's bolting across the spilled produce, he is, bolting straight to a young woman who's making motions more frantic than frantic to have him stay put.

Dame looks over. Sees the muzzle of an Earther's burner, pointed right in the space where the diplomat flutters before he takes to the air like a swan, pointed right between mother and child.

Dame looks over. Sees the spider, who sees her, sees that he sees that she sees. Spider says nothing. Ain't no time to say anything. Spider, in one powerful motion, lunges to his feet and knocks her away, pushes her back against the rice bags and into assured safety, darts right in front of the space where that little boy with untrimmed black hair would be, and—

_Bang._

Spider goes down.

Blood sprays over linoleum and tile. Red on white. Something real harsh.

The little boy darts to safety from behind him, blind to his savior. Jumps into his mama's arms and don't look back at the nice stranger who's crumpled in his own pool of blood on the floor.

Dame surges to her feet, whipping her gun from its holster like a quick draw.

" _ZENO!_ "

Scream is loud and harsh, metal on chalkboard. Heukchi, the Fire from the Fire Tribe, seizes the distraction and bolts out the front door, quick as can be. Earthers are fresh on his heels.

The Bunch pulls up, one by one, hesitating at the sight of the spider on the ground. Dame's eyes flash fire.

"Don't you dare stop," spits she between gritted teeth. "Shinah. You chase those wretched Earther scum. You tell me where they're holing themselves up. You chase them _now_."

Hitman's eyes flutter over the spider in worry, but he don't hesitate. Not at a direct command from the dame. Out he goes, coat billowing behind him like wings from a fallen angel.

"Jaeha. Connections."

That's all the dame needs to say for the diplomat to whisk away. Don't even jump for a quip.

Rest of the party huddles 'round the spider's fallen body. Just a dame, a mama, a beast, and a captain remain.

"Blast, Zeno." The expletive slips from the captain's ashen lips.

The wound's straight to the chest. Should puncture the lung, fatal. Ain't nothing to do but watch the spider slowly bleed to death. He's gurgling with every breath, something drawn and painful, speaking of blood in his bronchi.

Mama takes charge. This news ain't new for him. More severe than most, sure thing. But ain't new.

"Tourniquet," says he, clipped and burdened.

Dame don't waste time tearing up the hem of her skirt. Passes it to the mama. He balls it up and presses it on the wound.

"Blanket."

Beast relinquishes his jacket with a swift, smooth shake. Mama pulls it around the spider to keep the body heat.

"Water."

Dame's eyes flicker in confusion, but she nods for the captain to grab the nearest plastic jug. They don't ask if it's a good idea to give water to a man with a problem in his lungs. They trust the mama.

Captain comes back with a big one, five gallons. Mama takes it, uncaps it, and dumps it over the spider's body without decorum, running the constant stream over him like he's watering a plant.

Dame bites her lip to keep from yelling, _The wound, what are you doing, it'll get in his lungs._

"More," demands the mama, tossing the empty container away.

Captain's over bamboozled by now, but off he goes and back he comes with another lovely. Mama does the same. Uncap, pour. Water soaks through the beast's jacket and the dame's skirts, soaks over the clear linoleum, soaks into the blood on the ground 'til it makes tie-dye yin and yang with red and negative space.

Then the spider coughs.

Turns his head just slight, weak, coughs until scarlet pus and spittle fleck from his mouth to the floor. Breathes. Lungs don't rattle no more.

"By the Four," swears the beast.

Dame and the captain are struck equally speechless. Here they is, seeing a miracle come to life right before their pretty little eyes.

"One more," says the mama, "and that should do it."

Captain fetches one more. Over the spider it goes. This time, the dame catches something strange. The moment that water hits the spider, it _stops_. Leaks into the clothes, sure, but it don't rebound off, it don't splash away, it don't bounce from the waterlogged jacket and pour on the floor. Just slides down him, sluggish, maple syrup on a stack of pancakes, like the current's been pulled right outta it. Has that been happening for the past two containers? Dame don't know. Dame wasn't paying attention to that sort of thing. Now she will.

Spider gives a great, heaving cough. Breathes. Clear, free, spring wind on a summer afternoon.

Mama throws down the empty water jug. Squats down next to the spider, ignoring the blood and water that's soaking his shoes.

"Well? How are you feeling?" demands he.

"I've been better," says the spider. Smiles weak.

The dame crouches down, grabbing for the hem of his shirt. Needs to see the wound with her own two eyes, 'cus ain't no way that a hit from a gun healed that fast.

But the spider grabs at her hand. Looks her dead in the eye.

"Let it lie, miss," says he evenly.

"You were _shot_ ," snaps the dame. "I daresay we have a right to understand _what in Kouka just happened_."

Spider shakes his head. Light, painful smile's still on his lips. "Maybe Saint Zeno heard your petition."

Dame sees something different in his eyes. Something harrowed and hollow, something that she's only seen when he talked about his wife. Something that chills the marrow of her bones and, if she's downright honest, makes her plumb scared.

She lets go.

"You're alright, Zeno?" asks she.

"Right as rain," says the spider.

She offers a hand. He takes it and she pulls him up.

"Then that's all I need," says she.

"I know," says the spider.

Moment is silent, touching, something with a cup of tension and a tablespoon of doubt, but heaps on heaps of relief. Beast and the captain clearly bite back words to say. Mama only surveys the scene without emotion.

Then the spider yawns and stretches his hands high in the air. "You know, I could really go for a burger."

.

.

.

Guess that's one secret outta the bag, but the spider's got more. So many more.

Mama Yun first landed on it during a winter morning, cold and bleak and cloudy. Like today, he was just going shopping. Grabbing some fruit, some toiletries, things to get the Bunch by daily life. Even gangsters need shaving cream and toothpaste.

Got a Sense as he was heading home, walking past some dingy alley where the sun don't shine. All mamas get that Sense: some alarm bell in their soul that makes a ruckus when their child is in danger, real danger. Mama Yun entered the alley thanks to that Sense, and ran straight into a Zeno bleeding his guts on the pavement.

Froze right up, Yun did. Thought he was gonna watch one of his ducklings die, right then, right there. Zeno, he was muttering nonsense.

_It's too... too dark... too cold... no wind... need... need water..._

Well, what's a mama to do?

Decided to do only what he could, and that's listen. So he went to grab water. Tried to bring it to Zeno's lips, but Zeno knocked it put of his hand with the tip of his fingers. Splashed everything over his chest.

 _Not enough,_ he'd whined when the water had stilled like syrup. _Need more._

So Yun brought more. And more. Zeno didn't drink none of it. Just kept knocking it out of his hand, splashing it over himself. But somehow, Zeno started getting better. The knife wound in his side closed up, knitted new flesh and muscle. And that was it. It was as if Zeno'd never been hurt, not one bit.

That was when Yun became a secret-keeper.

'Course, ain't the only secret he had to keep.

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.

The Bunch gets back to Den, weary and laden from the day's activities. Zeno's carrying a suitcase of takeout, burgers and fries and anything you can think of, stuffed to the brim. Heart attack on a plate. But you don't tell a man who almost died that he can't eat what he wants. Ain't a soul who knows where all that food goes, but somehow, Zeno's able to scarf it all down.

Gang pours in, one at a time. Zeno flops on his mat with his treasury of junk food, humming in contentment. Yun starts unpacking the groceries.

But Hak and Yona, they stop short, glaring at the place.

"What is it?" calls Zeno.

"The mat," says Hak, says Yona, both at once, harmony with discomfort.

Dame's mat, fixed in the middle of the Den like a center stage, has the pillow on the right side. Usually, it ain't that way. Usually, it's on the wrong side. Even though no crates been overturned and nothing looks opened, that pillow is easily missed, 'cus who would place their pillow on the wrong side of the mat for no reason?

"Someone was here," says Yona briskly. "Be on guard for traps."

Hak shakes his head. "Don't think we need that."

"Why not?"

Hak looks even. "Only one person knows about the Den. 'Cept us."

Yona straightens slow, emotions flickering over her face like frames on a motion picture. Air turns cold and heavy, stretched between her and Hak with a weight of several years.

"Guys," says Yun, freezing over the icebox. Groceries still in his hands. "There's a package in here. Chocolate. A fancy deck of cards. A bouquet of roses. A plush bear. And—"

"And a card," finishes Yona, soft.

"And a card," confirms Yun solemnly.

What does that card say? Well. Hak and Yona, they don't even need to look to know.

From Suwon, it says.

From Suwon.


	4. Upper District

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We'll need an immediate lockdown on every potential weapon of mass destruction in the city," says the dame.
> 
> Ain't no exaggeration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poWERGAMING INTENSIFIES

"Seems he still wants to make amends."

"Make what amends? He's not sorry for what he's done, Hak."

"What he did had to be done, Princess."

Yona growls quiet in a rare moment of frustration. Picks up the chocolates, the bouquet of roses, the fancy deck of cards, the plush bear. Stuffs 'em in the trash, a trash where there's molding rice and old chicken bones, a trash that stinks. Ain't no getting those gifts back from that trash. Not untainted.

"Yun. The card. What does it say?" demands Hak.

"Nothing," snaps Yona. "It always says nothing."

Hak raises a brow at Yun. Yun grimaces. No other answer needed.

"Make amends? With a blank note that has—what, his signature? What does he think I am, a fangirl?" Yona kicks at the trash for good measure. Good thing nothing ruptures, or that'd be a fine waste of a $300 pair of shoes. "He doesn't need my good will. Let him live without it. Live a life in the lap of luxury as the dog he is."

Storms outta the Den, put in a foul mood. Zeno looks at Yun. Yun looks at Hak.

"Betrayal only hurts as much as you believe in someone," is all Hak says. Gentle. Enigmatic.

Then he sweeps away, follows Yona. He won't disturb her walk. He'll keep to the rooftops, tracking her like a second shadow, a last-resort emergency protocol for safety.

.

.

.

Ain't no use hiding it anymore.

Two men stole the princess away, as you know. One of 'em was Hak. The other was Suwon.

No hard feelings, nothing personal. Suwon just needed money. Suwon just needed influence. Hak was just his second-in-command, the officer who Suwon trusted more than he trusted himself. Hak ain't his second-in-command anymore, 'course. But that's jumping ahead of the story, telling the good bits before the setup's complete.

Suwon was already the godfather of the Sky Tribe by then. Youngest yet, only sixteen years of age. Ain't even grown a hair on his chin. He was fresh on the seat of power, and the Skies—well, they wasn't happy. Didn't want a kid leading them.

That's when the power struggle started, and what a power struggle it was. Break-ins and assassination attempts and a swarm of marriage offers. Everyone trying to pull Suwon this way and that, buffer him like he was just another ordinary sixteen-year-old boy. Only thanks to Hak that he survived at all, really. Ain't no bodyguard in the world better than the Thunder Beast.

Instability proved to be too much for Suwon. He hatched a plan real fast, something that the gang didn't expect, because above all, they underestimated Suwon.

That was always his sticking point, his advantage. Being underestimated.

That was how he waltzed into the palace on the night of a socialite ball, dressed in place of a noble that he and Hak had hidden away in some broom closet in the undergut of Kouka. That was how he flitted and flirted and captured the heart of every woman in the room. That was how he swooped to Yona's side like a knight in shining armor when she tipped over from a misstep on her way to the refreshments table.

 _Hello, Princess,_ he'd said, with that perfectly symmetrical smile in white and that head angle that would catch the light in just the right way.

The princess fell. How could she not?

How... could she not?

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.

.

Dame is storming down the alley on 11th and L, just three streets away from the Den, when she hears the jingle of metal a few paces behind her. Smiles to herself when she hears it. Means things is just about to get a little fun.

She keeps walking, casual-like, waiting, biding her time. She's rewarded with a harsh, grating voice as soon as she's reached the middle of the alley.

"What's a pretty dame like you doing all alone on such a fine night?"

Dame slows to a halt. Turns, deliberately. Ain't no fear in her face. She's amused, very amused, spine straight and shoulders thrown back and eyes glimmering with confidence. She counts the men: three, average in size; two with knives and one with a filched gun; all of 'em confused as the dickens on her reaction. Dame is sizing 'em up like a panther would her prey, after all.

"I'm taking a walk," dame says, smooth. "The night air is especially refreshing at this time."

Leader recovers quickly. Dame would be a fine catch for trafficking, after all, whether she's gone loopy or no. "Why don't you come with us?" says he.

She's silent for a moment, then shrugs. "I don't see why not."

The three men exchange looks at that point. Ain't ever seen a woman act this way. They start feeling sus, looking around, searching for a camera or a police officer or any sign of a trap.

Dame steps close, real close. "Is there a problem?" says she, voice hard.

Leader looks right at her. Pauses one moment. Pauses two.

Then pulls his switchblade from his belt, swinging it at her with power.

Dame don't flinch. Steps back with grace so the knife skims the space in front of her. Turns. The fabric of her skirt and shawl gives a grand _swoosh_ , billowing in the air like eagles' wings. One fluid motion: she raises her leg, raises it high, smashes the top of her foot right against the leader's ear. He goes down, screaming.

Next priority's the man with the gun. He's grabbed it, raised it up, but the dame don't care. It ain't cocked and ready to fire. She grips it by the barrel and twists it, harsh. Trigger catches his finger and bends his wrist with a _snap._ A knee to the gut sends him limping away, blubbering and cradling his hand, while she threads the gun out of his grasp into her own.

Points the gun at the last man, whose knife is raised high. He don't move.

Dame waits. Raises an eyebrow.

That seems to jerk his pride. He lunges forward, pulling his limbs in, trying to dodge the incoming bullet.

Dame only steps back, cocks the gun, waits calmly for him to stabilize, and shoots. _BANG,_ right in the knee. Clean through.

And there they is. Three grown gents and one dame. Gents lying strewn over the ground like ragdolls. Dame standing tall, standing cold, a gun in her hand, and it ain't even her own. She scoffs, dusts off her skirt.

"The lot of you are _disgusting_ , preying on innocent women. Get your act together."

Pockets her newly acquired weapon. Heads back to the den. Those men, they ain't about to traffic women for a long, long time.

.

.

.

On the rooftop above, the Thunder Beast lazes casually at the edge of the tiling, swinging his legs in the air.

He ain't even budged through the whole scene. Just watched and laughed to himself, like he'd been listening to primetime entertainment on the radio.

Get him some popcorn, and the picture's complete.

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.

.

Shinah and Jaeha, they're back by the time Yona returns. Resting on their cots, stealing a handful of fries from Zeno's stash. They stand sharp when Yona steps through the door, ready to report.

Yona's in a better mood, but still one of business. "Jaeha," says she, crisp.

"Yunho—Geuntae's pretty little wife, remember—stumbled upon some correspondence plotting for a thought-out assassination of Geuntae, allegedly written by another Earther. It caused a lovely mess; you know how they love Geuntae. There were lots of investigations, and everyone was pointing fingers for treason."

Yona frowns. "Yet they're after the Fire Tribe. Why? Did the Fire Tribe forge it?"

"That's what the Earthers believe." Jaeha brings his flambouyant jacket to his cheek with a quiet sigh. "Thanks to the attentions of a certain... _lonely_ Earther, I was able to find out that the handwriting of the correspondence was the same handwriting as a Fire. Further investigations corroborated their theory."

"So... They think that the Fires forged a letter, pretending to be Earthers secretly plotting treason behind Geuntae's back."

"Just so, Yona dear."

Yona kneads at her temples. "What a mess. Shinah? If this is correct, then the people who shot Zeno are real Earthers, not some offshoot branch or cult."

Shinah tips his hat ever so slight over his eyes. "Yes. They... went back... to the Earther headquarters."

Yona sighs. "Pity. I can't start a war with the Earthers... even if they did shoot Zeno."

"Zeno is fine, miss," chirrups Zeno from his corner, still munching happily on French fries. Ain't stopped eating from the moment he set foot in the Den.

"Still. It's inexcusable." Yona contemplatively spins her new gun in her grip. "We'll need to uncover the situation. I haven't seen the Earthers this riled up in ages."

"Oh, Yona dear, it gets even better," says Jaeha drily. "Fires are swearing up and down and left and right that they haven't done anything. They're getting angry because the Earthers are calling them liars. You know how they are with their pride."

"Stars, what a bunch of children," Yona sighs.

"Now you know what it's like to manage you guys," Yun offers cheerily.

Yona giggles light at this. Her dragons, they only snort.

Hak slides in the Den just then. Most days, he slips in like a shadow, stays like a shadow, either 'til he's needed or 'til he finds the right moment to spring up some snark.

Not today. He's got a letter in his hand, and he holds it out to Yona.

"There's someone looking for us, Princess," says he.

Yona blinks at it in surprise for a spell. Takes it and slices the top of it deftly.

"Where did you get this?" asks she.

"The fake address," says Hak. There's a store in the city directory, a place where all the other gangs think the Bunch hides, using the store as a front. None knows about the Den.

Yona skims through the letter fast. Something about it must startle her, 'cus up her head goes, fast and fiery.

"Who wrote this?" says she. "You saw him, didn't you?"

Hak looks evenly. " _Her_. The daughter of the Wats' godfather. Ahn Lili."

.

.

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Fires, Earthers, Wats, Skies, and Windies. Feels like those five gangs've been running the city for around, since before the city was born.

Ain't so. The gangs been sneezing for just a little over one hundred years.

Back then, they done started all at once, _bam,_ instant flowers out of fertilized soil. Fires and Earthers and Wats and Skies and Windies, up all at once. One day there wasn't no gangs in Kouka. The next, there was suddenly five. Almost as if they'd been prompted by the same event.

What's that event, asks you?

Well. A tale for another time.

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Parisian Cantina. Night. Dame ain't slept for a full day, but no soul would know by how she's dressed. She don't walk in with that mysterious brown cloak like last time; she enters loud and proud, lush silks in vibrant colors, Yun at her side. Rest of the dragons are scattered 'round the Parisian Cantina, checking for traps and plants.

Dame catches a glimpse of the diplomat sweeping some woman off of her feet in front of the stage, swaying lightly to the skillful tunes of Minsoo's improvisational piano. Smiles to herself.

Dame catches a glimpse of the hitman. Dressed in all black, hiding in the deepest shadow of the bar with a single drink. Wouldn't have seen him if she hadn't been looking for him.

Dame catches a glimpse of the spider, chowing down on a plate of refreshments with a bunch of other gents. Looks like he knows those gents. Ain't much surprise; the spider knows everyone. Got threads to everywhere, and the center of his web leads nowhere.

Dame catches a glimpse of the captain, sitting on his lonesome, enjoying the music performance with a tilted head and closed eyes. Ain't no one who sits by him. Looks like peace incarnate. You don't disturb that in the undergut of Kouka.

Dame catches a glimpse of the Thunder Beast, perched on a bar stool with his favorite drink. A blonde broad slips next to him, someone with beautiful, sparkling eyes, wine-red lips, and a low neckline that's sure to emphasize the swell of her breasts. Leans in close and smiles winsomely at the beast. Dame's lips part, just slightly, and her hand comes up to play with the tips of her unruly red hair. Thinks of her short locks, her conservative neckline, her eyes that get too angry.

"Are you... the Godmother?"

Dame snaps back to reality at the voice behind her. Reminds herself that she's got no reason to care what and with whom the beast is doing. Turns around.

Woman before her is lovely, long, silky hair black as the night sky, raven's feathers against the stars. Dressed in a natural sort of formal, something deep blue with a Peter Pan collar and a skirt that flows like water 'round her knees. Dame expects to see her with a guard or two, but ain't no one.

"You must be," says the woman. Gives a curtsy, elegant as Snow White. "I'm Lili."

Makes the dame feel even more unbalanced. Surrounded by beautiful women. Insecurity ain't monopolized by teenagers, after all.

"Hello," says the dame, recovering with a graceful nod. Gestures to the seat next to her. "Do sit."

Lili does. "I'll just get straight to the point, since you seem to be a very busy and influential person."

And she suddenly bows over, bows until her forehead is touching the table.

"Please, Godmother, save us," she says.

Dame looks around awkward, pulling at Lili's arm, trying to get her to stop bowing. For half a jiffy, she fancies if Lili knows her past. But ain't so. No one knows the dame's past outside of the Bunch.

"I'm neither royalty nor deity that you should bow to me," she says.

Lili straightens slowly, face perfectly masked. Truth is, she's a bit miffed to go through all the trouble of humiliating herself, only to be met with opposition. Takes a lot for the proud Wat daughter to get herself to bow.

Not that she'd say so.

"Yet I'm asking you to save my people," says Lili determinedly.

Dame's brow flickers in consternation the tiniest bit. "The Water Tribe? But you mentioned in your letter that you knew about the conflict between the Fire Tribe and the Earth Tribe."

"They're related, certainly." Lili grimaces. "It's thanks to us that the Earth Tribe became... disgruntled."

Dame's mind flies to connect the information. The Earthers got irked because of a supposed letter plotting treason, believing it done been forged by the Fires. But if the Wats were involved in the process, like Lili's suggesting...

"You're saying... that the Water Tribe forged that correspondence to look like the Fire Tribe wrote it?"

Lili says nothing. That's agreement plenty.

"So..." Dame draws up a conclusion. "The Water Tribe forged a fake letter to look like it had been forged by the Fire Tribe to look like a group of Earth Tribe members were plotting treason."

"Stars, it's like a soap opera," Yun mutters under his breath.

"What reason would your people have to do this?" the dame demands. "Surely they'd know that it'd only stir up trouble."

Lili's eyes spark from deep within her skull. "Father believes that we _need_ trouble in order to live. The fall of the nadai chain... Well, none of us liked them, but as you know, we specialize in trade, and when they crumbled..."

Dame winces. "Of course. Such a large import source would've been taxed by the Water Tribe upon entering the city."

"And with the nadai tax gone, the Water Tribe is in shambles. And then with the depression—trade is the hardest it's ever been." Lili's eyes waver. "So there was only one thing that Father could think of to stimulate trade again."

It strikes the dame, fast as a bat. "To start an underground war," murmurs she, "and remain a neutral party who will trade weapons to both sides for the right amount of money."

In a normal war, trying to stay neutral and stay trading is as good as suicide. Both sides'd be on your throat before two sands of an hourglass plink to the other side. But that ain't how the underground works, not here. In the underground, everything's fair game. You pay someone, you expect them to go to your enemy unless you pay them even better. That's how contractors and partners work. Not the families themselves, because you need oaths and trust and utter loyalty to join a family—but those outside the family? Everyone knows that everything's fair game.

"You'd be surprise how large the Fire and Earth Tribes are," says Lili, "and how much they're willing to spend for a war."

Dame feels a prickle of something new, something terrifying. "With trade on that scale... Just how big are you expecting this war to be?"

Lili looks grave and fiery all at once. "Let's just say that in the letter of treason, there were mentions on what would be done to Geuntae's wife."

A moment of silence.

"We'll need an immediate lockdown on every potential weapon of mass destruction in the city," says the dame.

Ain't no exaggeration.

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Wondering how that Thunder Beast handled the blonde broad with beautiful, sparkling eyes, wine-red lips, and a low neckline? So do we all.

So the blonde broad takes her seat. Calls for some drink. Specifically, "I'll have what he's having." That's usually a conversation opener when you're a pretty woman.

Surprise. Beast don't show the slightest hint of interest. Eyes stay on the crowd, sweeping left, sweeping right. Systematically. Checking for the dame's safety.

Broad coughs dainty. Tries to get his notice.

Ain't nothing.

So she sets aside her pride, just this once. "You look new around here," says she.

"Ain't," is all the beast says, quick and terse.

Broad tries to be patient. "I'm quite certain I would remember a face like yours," says she. Leans over a little.

Beast finally looks over. Broad feels triumphant; _Ah, I've got him now._ Waits for his eyes to dance over her décolletage, the perfect swell of her hips. His eyes don't. They bear right into her own gaze, grim and foreboding. She ain't seen eyes like that for a long, long while; not in the heads of sober men.

"I'm working, miss," says he brusquely, "and right now, you're being an obstacle. Go find some other gent to gallivant with."

Offends the broad's pride too much. She grabs her new drink, moves to fling it in his face. She's got human dignity, too.

But the beast's reflexes are too trained, too conditioned. Corner of his eye catches motion. Back part of his brain instantly synthesizes, _pistol, switchblade, dame in danger,_ and his hands sweep over, stop her wrist, twist it until her glass falls from her hands, shattering like diamonds on the floor.

Noise don't cause any attention. Not in a bar like the Parisian Cantina.

The fire in the beast's eyes dies down, just a tad, when he realizes that the dame ain't in danger, that this broad is innocent. Still, when the bartender rings the bill for the broken glass, the beast pushes it to the broad. He ain't a gentleman; never wanted to be.

"Be careful at this bar, miss," says the beast, low and menacing. "Ain't people you wanna fool with 'round here."

Gets up. Walks to another stool, pointedly. Sits and watches the surroundings again.

And that's how the Thunder Beast dealt with the beautiful blonde broad.

Not exactly dinner and dancing.

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.

"You know what the irony is."

"This situation is many things, Jaeha, but I doubt that _ironic_ is one of them."

"The irony is that if the situation where reversed, if we'd gone to the Wats for help—well, the first thing they'd do is run to the Fire Tribe and the Earth Tribe and tattle for the right price. Being ignoble is so very lucrative."

"Dirty tricks like that ain't for us. We're gangsters, not businessmen, Droopy-Eyes."

"Hooo, I felt that burn from over here, Hak dear."

The diplomat. Man's more used to dodging blame than taking it. He's lounging against the only meeting table in the Den, 'round which all the Bunch is sitting, eyes bright and faces grave.

Dame casts him a quiet look, three parts exasperation and one part fondness.

"Besides, if we spoke against the Wats, their entire people group and two degrees of separation would be massacred in an instant. I don't like including innocents." She spins her pen in her fingers, flittering like a butterfly on a stalk of wheat. "Furthermore, Ahn Lili swallowed up a lot of her pride to ask for help. I say we honor that as much as we can."

"Can't be nice to everyone who asks for help," the diplomat murmurs. Ain't bitter. Ain't critical. Just a tad... sad.

Dame moves on, brisk and business. "Any thoughts on plan of action? We need to react as quickly as possible if we want Kouka to remain standing."

Thunder Beast raises a hand. "Need to look around before we decide anything," says he drily. "Might end up shooting ourselves in the foot if we don't grasp the whole situation. 'Specially if the Wats are fibbing."

"Fair point." Dame gnaws on her lip. "Then let's split up. Shinah, Kija, Jaeha. Can you take care of the Earthers?"

Captain smiles, comforting and sweet. "Your wish is our command, Yona."

"Speak for yourself," mutters the diplomat under his breath. But complains nothing more.

"That'll leave Zeno, Hak, and me for the Fire Tribe." Dame sweeps to her feet. Throws on her trusty brown cloak; removes her heels in favor of boots with tough soles. "Move out."

Mama's been tame through most of the conversation, but at that sentence, he leaps to his feet and slaps a hand down on the table, eyes sharp and burning right through the dame. Sound of his palm smashing against the table reverbs off the wall, dripping water in a large cavern.

"No," says the mama, firm. "You all need to get some sleep before you leave."

"Won't be any sleep to get if Kouka blows," says the beast wry.

But don't cross a mama when it comes to the health of her chicks. Mama grabs the beast by the scruff of the neck and bodily flings him on his cot. Bit of a humorous display, seeing how the mama's more than a head shorter.

"You all haven't slept in 30 hours, and you haven't had a proper meal," says he sharply. "You eat and you sleep _now._ Or you'll end up dying on the field by, I don't know, tripping over a rock."

"Yun," starts the dame, but the mama shakes his head.

"Sorry. This is final. The Earthers won't be able to secure a weapon of mass destruction within eight hours. Get that much sleep, at least." Mama's tone tapers off. Pleading. Truth is, his sheen of nagging belies something that fills him with terror. He done seen one of his little ducklings get shot, nearly bleed to death on the grocer's floor. Needs some rest, the mama does. Just as much as the rest of 'em.

Dame picks this up, quick and quiet. Pretends she don't, though. That's her way.

"Set an alarm, Kija," says she. "We'll grab seven hours. Then it's time."

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Sometimes you gotta wonder if the Bunch dreams. How go the dreams of dames and gents who done snapped necks and blown off heads and lived in nightmares worse than they could ever imagine?

Here's how.

Captain dreams of a party. Something gold and glamorous, with a pretty little chandelier hanging right in the center, blown from crystal and glass and more gemstones than the dame's armoire, back in the days when she had one. Waltz is playing, a fine little opus by Johann Strauss the Younger, or someone who took his name. Ballgowns everywhere. Hand-tailored silks from Sei and catered coats from Kai. Ain't ever been more finery in one place, not since the last public ball in Parliament.

Captain's in the midst of it all, standing in the center. Dreams like to place their dreamers in the center, see. Little bit of payment rendered for hosting 'em.

'Cept, the captain ain't dancing. No siree. He's with a man, someone big and broad with wispy silver hair that flows proper to his waist, a regal peacock plumage jutting from the skull. That man is introducing him to another man. Laughing. Smiling. _This is my son._ More laughing and smiling. _He certainly takes on the likeness of his father._

Thing is, the captain ain't fooled. Plays a little game within himself: Translate the Real Meaning.

 _This is my son._ — You can no longer relegate me to being obsolete; I have a powerful heir.

 _He certainly takes on the likeness of his father._ — Well, I shall be certain to treat him with equal caution and hidden disgust as I treat you.

 _I believe you would find his latest venture to be a strong asset to your company._ — Fool. I have dominance over you, since I know your corporation has no other option but to receive my help.

 _I shall consider it._ — No way in the seven circles of the Underground would I accept it.

It's a game that's amusing for the first three encounters, maybe five if you push it, but at the eighth, the captain's plumb out of his mind. Such games ain't for him.

Looks outside the ballroom, out the window. Since it's a dream, he sees what his heart desires. Troops marching, seven of 'em, pressing on weary through rain and mud and half-formed sleet, the strongest glue to their motivation nothing but their own brotherhood. Craves that valiant life, that simple life. To the captain, fulfillment ain't about a medal or a certificate. Fulfillment's a bond.

Must be why the life of a privileged progeny don't suit him well.

Finally the man goes away. Captain's left with the big and broad figure, the figure with the wispy silver hair. Captain pulls on his sleeve.

 _Father, I, I simply am not meant for this life,_ pleads the captain, and plead he does, falling to his knees in the middle of that festive ballroom. Dancers don't pay him no mind. People who populate dreams never do.

Father slaps the captain clear across the face. Long nails, manicured, perfectly filed, cut across the captain's cheek.

_You ungrateful child! After all the work and all the resources that I poured into you?! Pay your mother back for her pain in birthing you before you flee like a coward!_

Captain falls to the ground. Defeated.

Ain't no one who sees.

 _I'm not meant,_ whispers he from dry lips, _for a life of playing chess with Greed._

Ain't no one who hears.

Captain closes his eyes. Tired, he feels. Ever so tired. Can't move a muscle.

Then a voice, something slow and sweet, angelic, lighting up like a candle in the dark, coats cool and soothing against his ears. Could listen to that voice forever. It's a war ballad, a lullaby about a boy named Timmy who messed with his parachute, fell outta the sky like a brick from a crane. Hearing it ignites the captain's soul, sets his heart ablaze.

 _Come, Kija,_ sings the red-haired siren. Extends a pale hand, something that flows in the light of the chandelier. _Come, and join your brothers._

Captain takes it. How could he not?

How... could he not?

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Three men in pinstriped suits step outta their taxicab, fresh and fierce. Any woman worth her salt stops to have a little look-see. Ain't every day that you see so handsome a captain, a diplomat, and a hitman.

"Home sweet home," yawns the diplomat. Eyes rove 'round the Upper District. 'Round the chrome, the gleaming lights, the mass of glass. Fountains spring like weeds here, even while the Lower District's breaking for a handful of clean water. Pale, scrubbed-clean streets are packed with glittering figures who wear their wallets over their bodies. Prosperity, indulgence, gluttony. That's the Upper District.

Captain casts the diplomat a dour glance. "Home? For you?"

"You'd be surprised," is all the diplomat spares.

"Didn't you say you were in the Lower District your whole life?" says the captain.

"Born there," the diplomat accedes, "but that doesn't mean I was raised there."

Captain blinks. "Which means?"

"Which means... it's time to meet our contacts." Diplomat grins, bright and broad and fake as a pindoll's satin ribbons. "After all. Infiltrating a major gang takes lots and lots of work."

That's when the diplomat turns, right there on the sidewalk, calling over his shoulder with a lofty grin.

"Isn't that right... Gigan?"

Leaning against the corner of the nearest alley is a shroud of a figure, long and spindly with silver hair tied up like a dignified grandmom writing a eulogy, a thinner than thin cigar swinging gentle between two fingers.

Hitman moves faster than the eye can see. One moment has nothing in his hands. The next, two revolvers, black and shiny and clasped easy in perfectly steady grips, right at the shroud in the corner.

Very same second, the hitman's target—well, she brings out her own toys, straight and sharp without flourish. Can't see nothing except a slender arm bound in dark cloth sticking outta the shadows.

Captain follows right up, his own burner pulled out with his left hand, rested on his other fingers that're curled 'round a cold, hard knife.

Diplomat don't sweat one bit. Only moves forward and pats the hitman's arm, the captain's arm. Waves to the shroud of a figure.

"Easy, fellows. You're all with me."

Hitman don't budge. "Who," whispers he, soft and strewn.

Diplomat steps in front of those revolvers. No fear. Looks over his shoulder and jerks his head, lopsided smile still playing over his lips.

"Come on out, guys."

Like specters from fog in a harbor, a swarm of figures emerges from every corner of the street, blending outta the bricks and the barrels. Tall figures. Short figures. Big figures. Lean figures. They stick out like a sore thumb in the bustling glamor of the Upper District, sure they do. But they don't care one bit.

Diplomat smiles. Waves his arm with a pinch of show, a magician at his debut.

"Kija. Shinah. Allow me to introduce you to the Awa Pirates. The modern-day Robin Hoods, the nadai chain's long-time number one enemy, and... my family."

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On the opposite of the opposite side, the strip of Lower District that borders just a stone's throw from the Harborough Cauldron, a special, special ops team crouches on the rooftop, shouldering slim backpacks and bulletproof vests.

Dressed in all black, they is, like a dark choir ringing up a eulogy. Three of 'em, black caps pulled over their heads, black jackets shrugged around their figures, black pants tucked into black combat boots, black gauze wrapped under their noses and over their mouths. Sleek, solemn, and deadly's the name of the game. That, and a wardrobe that can blend into shadow like sawdust in a carpentry.

"Ooooh, we look quite _cool,_ don't we, miss?" says the spider cheerily. Like he's caroling in a kindergarten, not prepping to enter the devil's lair.

"Why, should we take a commemorative photo?" tosses the beast drily.

"Find a camera, a photographer, and some film, and you have a deal," smirks the dame.

Beast throws a look at her, something that's awful close to rolling his eyes. Dame only sticks her tongue out in response.

"This clothing certainly gets me into character," interjects the spider lightly. "Should we make-believe, miss?"

"Make-believe what, Zeno?"

"That we can fly, miss," says the spider, and leaps in a swan dive off of the building. Only two storeys, that rooftop is. Barely high enough to stay hidden in a place like Kouka. Ain't much a flight, to say the least. But it does the job.

Spider lands right on a gangster who's making his rounds at the border of Fire territory. Dame and the beast are only a second behind, pinning down the remaining two. Just like that, the entry guard is silenced by the dark choir.

One knock to the head, and it's lights out.

They tie the gangsters up with a bit of scavenged rope, knotting it nice and neat. Gag 'em with burlap dipped in chloroform. Still; it's hard work to drag the bodies into a side aisle. Dame is breathing heavy by the end. Ain't born with the same stature as the beast or the same stamina as the spider.

"How I envy Jaeha and Shinah and Kija," mumbles the dame. "What do you think they're doing at the moment?"

"Drinking, most likely," snorts the beast, "for 'negotiation purposes.'"

"They have the Awa Pirates to lobby an open audience with the Earthers," sighs the dame, "but look as _us_ , sneaking through the Fires like a bunch of criminals."

"If you want an easy life, Princess, go into knitting and get a few cats," says the beast with an easy smirk.

"Or join my Parish and Rectory, miss," pipes the spider, grinning, "if you plan on never marrying."

Dame pinches both of them with a cute little frown. "You guys are both so weird," she snorts. "Go out and meet some girls."

Triggers that deep core of mischief in the beast. He slides forward, smooth as sanded oak, sleek and corded in all black, hand whisking up against the wall, body just inches away from the dame. Tip of his cap bumps gentle against hers.

"Shall I?" murmurs he, mouth set straight, but voice carrying just a tiny lilt of amusement. Teases the dame like a boy pulling on a girl's pigtails.

Expects the dame to pull away, or fist him in the chest, or elbow him in the ribs. Maybe even turn away with a stammer. But the dame does none of those. Only looks back at him, quiet and intense, large eyes and rose-colored flush on her cheeks, something so thoughtful and intimate that the beast steps away of his own accord. That's a look he don't understand.

Dame drops her gaze. Musing something in that pretty little head of hers. Something she don't say aloud.

"Well," says the spider, holiday cheer as if nothing done happen, "beautiful day, isn't it? Not a cloud in the sky."

Dame tips her hat over her eyes, back to reality. "Let's go," says she. "And work quickly. We've only got two hours tops before someone realizes these guards are missing."

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"Let's drop the formalities," yawns Geuntae, pouring a fourth glass of scotch. "I know that you're here for the dirt on the whole... letter crap. Whatever you wanna call it."

Godfather of the Earthers is like this. Blunt, charismatic, and always drinking a tad too much.

"What you say is true," admits the diplomat all smooth, "but also false."

Geuntae barks a laugh. "Ain't no such thing."

"There's always grey areas, sir. Always." Diplomat stirs his martini with the end of a drinking parasol, face fixed in an unreadable smile. "I know enough about the letter situation. I don't need more info from you." Falsehood, as it is. A convincing one.

Geuntae raises an eyebrow. "Then what do you need? Doubt you've come for a social call."

Diplomat stops stirring. Tilts his head forward.

"What if I told you," says the diplomat, slowly, "that there's a chance the note was forged?"

Captain and hitman don't say a word, but their eyes pop at the diplomat, disbelieving. They're used to trusting the diplomat, of course. Diplomat sees conversations like a tapestry. Knows where all the threads run and where all the threads end up. Knows how the bigger picture goes.

But spilling something precious like this? Without the dame's word? That edges on the side of gambling.

Geuntae's eyes get sharp as a bayonet. "Forged?" echoes he.

Diplomat's eyes run over his face like a calculator. Then he relaxes, leans back against the bench. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

But he's seized Lee Geuntae for good. "Who?" demands the Earther.

Attention's now off the Fire Tribe and seeking a new target. That particular crisis, for now, been averted.

Problem is the new crisis. Diplomat's gotta treat his next words like a tightrope over a gorge.

"It's only a hypothetical situation," says the diplomat smoothly. "At present, there is nothing to either confirm or deny."

Geuntae scoffs. "So you don't know who."

"As I said. The scenario is merely hypothetical."

"You wouldn't mention it if it was only hypothetical." Geuntae's eyes cut into the diplomat like a hacksaw. "You wouldn't waste my time like that."

Air freezes over. Captain glances around, uneasy. Hitman's fingers crawl to the inner pocket of his coat.

Diplomat, though, he don't budge an inch. Gives his drink a cool little sip, like he's just hanging 'round the bar for a night of pleasure. "Certainly, as a rule, I dislike wasting the time of powerful persons. Their tempers have more... fatal results than the average person."

"Then don't waste my time," growls Lee Geuntae, "and tell me what dogs dared to slander my wife!"

Captain draws a breath. Maybe the hitman, too. No one can tell whether he breathes or no.

Diplomat lifts his eyes to the Earther godfather's.

"For now," murmurs he, delicate, every syllable screaming of secrecy, "all I can say is that this is much bigger than what you're thinking of... even right now."

Geuntae falls back against his seat, looking dumbfounded. "You don't mean..."

Diplomat stands abruptly. "I will seek audience with you later. My apologies for the ambiguity, but let me assure you; it was necessary."

They exit the Earthers' private bar. Geuntae don't stop them; only stares at his drink, looking blank. Five versions of the Armageddon playing out in his head, each one grander than the last.

The moment they're out of earshot, the captain grabs the diplomat by the sleeve. Pays no mind to the crowded street of the Upper District. "What by the Four Dragons was that all about, Jaeha?!" he hisses.

Jaeha shrugs it off. "Let's drop by the Pirates' place. I need to give my regards to Gigan."

Kija's grip only gets more firm. "You give me an answer, Jaeha. What. Was. That."

Jaeha looks even at him. "I bought us more time."

"You ratted out the Wats."

"I didn't mention the Wats."

"They'll find out soon enough."

"Not if we tell them that _someone else_ did the forging."

"You've gone mad. We need to talk to Yona before we decide these things!"

Jaeha grips him by the collar then. For the first time since his meet with Lee Geuntae, stress leaks from the fragile seams of his body. Bleeds through his forcibly relaxed smile, hardens his lazy limbs. "I don't know if you caught the context, Kija, but we _had no time._ That man was about the blow half of Kouka to scraps."

"He couldn't possibly, not in that amount of time."

"But he did. Do you know why we were able to get an audience with him so quickly?"

"He was waiting in the headquarters, and the Earthers are allied with the Awa Pirates. So the Awa Pirates just had to walk in and ask for—"

"Good textbook review, captain, I'd have given you an A if we were in school. Didn't you notice what was wrong?"

Kija opens his mouth. Closes. Blinks. Puzzled.

Shinah, half-melted into the shadows, speaks from stillness.

"Lee Geuntae was waiting," says he.

Jaeha snaps his fingers. "Exactly. Lee Geuntae, the man who never sits idle, the man who always leads the charge, was _waiting._ And you saw how furious he was about the letter. You think he'd be the type to sit around and twiddle his thumbs when he could be fighting for his wife's honor?"

"So..." Kija's eyes widen.

"Yes. The only reason he was waiting was because all the pieces had already been placed." Jaeha releases a long breath, something that no one knew he was holding. "Our audience request with him might have interrupted his plans by seconds. Milliseconds."

"Stars above," Kija whispers.

Jaeha releases him, the fight outta his body. "At the very least, we've bought some time. He won't fire recklessly with the possibility that the note was a forgery. I have an idea, but we need to run it by Yona as soon as possible."

"Then let's head back to the Den," says Kija firmly. "There isn't a moment to waste."

But Jaeha's barely raised his hand to flag a cab when Shinah catches it, shaking his head deliberately.

"Not the Den," murmurs he, unfocused. "The Fire heart."

Kija frowns. "But we're to meet back at the Den."

Shinah shakes his head again. Determined. "The Fires. Yona. I have... a bad feeling."

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.

In the headquarters of the Fire Tribe, guards strewn about tied and gagged like rag dolls on a dinner plate, a dark choir shuffles through sheaves of paper, indexing their mental catalogs. The Fire heart's a small warehouse—metal bracings, high-ceilinged plumbing, industrial with no hint of decor. Pragmatic and plain. Just like the Fires.

The spider's shuffling through the file cabinets. Beast, the side tables. Dame takes the main desk herself, where any urgent correspondence would be.

Spider presently lets out a low whistle. "What a wealth of knowledge, miss. We should do this for every Tribe."

"The Fires are our only open hostiles," says the dame. "I'd rather not make enemies if I can help it."

Thunder Beast raises a hand.

"If you don't want to make enemies," drawls he, "I suggest you fix your face."

Dame swings her foot at him. Beast easily dodges back.

"Meanie," dame mutters. Then stops short. Eyes go wide, wider than a butcher at a barbecue.

Spider straightens. "Miss? What is it?"

Dame drops her paper. It flutters to the ground, anticlimactic.

Beast stoops down and picks it up. Eyes flick over the untidy scrawl on the aged record.

 _Subject 0018.  
Hair: blue.  
__Eyes: bright gold (atypical; investigation pending).  
__Top candidate. Specialty: assassination._  
Successful missions: 28.

"Blue hair," whispers the dame, "and gold eyes. Specialty in assassination."

Spider's face runs blank. "But the Fires...?"

Beast don't say a word. Only points to the strip of text below.

_Whereabouts: MIA.  
_ _Search Priority: Very High._

"Shinah left the Fires," whispers the dame. "He was once part of the Fires. He—stars, I don't understand."

"Let's ask later," urges the spider, "but for now, we need to remember the letter."

"Yes. Yes, of course." Dame shakes her head. Twice. Clearing the doubts in her mind. "Of course..."

"Miss, what did you find?" says the spider evenly. Guiding the dame, gentle.

Dame blinks. "Ahn Lili spoke truth. There's correspondence from Kang Sujin on this desk. The Fires don't know what's going on, but they're prepping for war against the Earthers to defend their honor."

Spider nods. "Then that's what we need."

Beast nods back. "Let's go. No good loitering around this dump."

Dame nods hesitantly, her eyes darting to Shinah's record. Beast tosses it on the ground, extending a hand to her. Dame reaches for it, but pulls back.

"Wait," murmurs she. "Do you hear that?"

Silence for a moment. Then: _Beep. Beep. Beep._

"C sharp," dame says absently. "Why do I hear a C sha—"

She gasps.

"Hak!" hisses the dame. "It's a—"

Beast don't miss a beat. Flings himself over the dame. Presses her beneath the nearest desk.

_BOOM._

A flash, a shudder, a crinkling in the walls like balled up paper. Doors on all sides sift into breadcrumbs. Through the puffs of dust merge figures dark and deep, a good two dozen of them, armed to the teeth.

Beast's barely hit the ground when he rolls to one knee and draws up his pistol, cradling the dame's head with a large hand. Dame don't hesitate herself. Draws from the holster slung over the beast's back, bringing up a shotgun in her two arms.

Dame and her two dragons is surrounded in seconds. Through them flutters ghost-like an esteemed captain of the Fire Tribe: Kang Taejun, second son of the Fire godfather.

In a peacoat is he, long and thick and dark, silver hair billowing down his back like an elven maiden. Hem is cut straight and sewed perfect: sign of a coddled, privileged son from the Upper District, not of a typical brat born and raised at the border of the Harborough Cauldron. Hands is bare, pale, with fingers long and spindly like the stem of an apple. Don't need a weapon when you got a legion at your back.

"How neat," chuckles Kang Taejun, teeth as white as his hair. "Three rabbits caught in our trap. Even if not the rabbits we were expecting."

Thunder Beast draws himself slow to his feet, very slow. Stares even at Kang Taejun.

Taejun clicks his tongue. "Drop your weapons, Harpies. Even with all your legend, you are but men."

Silence passes.

"Harpies?" echoes the beast, gravelly voice tinted with confusion.

"Yes, Harpies," says Taejun impatiently. "The dame and her demons. The Godmother's crew. Unless you're implying that three innocent civilians were able to break into the highly fortified headquarters of the greatest Family in Kouka."

Another beat.

"Sir, it's—it's the _Happy_ Hungry Bunch." A quiet whisper from the back of the room.

"Is it? Not the Harpy Hungry Bunch?"

"No, sir."

"Oh." A pause. Kang Taejun flips his hair, a glamorous model off the page. "Well, whatever. Only one letter off. The point is, drop your weapons."

Hard to take a man seriously after a mistake like that. Less hard if he's got a legion and a half backing him up, armed to the molars.

Thunder Beast drops his pistol. Dame drops her shotgun. Spider don't have anything out in the first place.

"Good," says Taejun. "Now, come along nice and easy."

Beast looks to the dame. Dame stands frozen, expression unmoving and serene.

"Look," says Taejun, tapping his foot, "unless you want me to try this forcibly—"

That's when the dame opens her mouth.

Something foreign pours from her voice. Jeweled, honeyed, bright. Vocals trained in the palace and brought up in the bars. It's a haunting tune, captivating lyrics, beauty mixed with poetry. You close your eyes, and you can see a mauve dress, a glittering microphone, an 1880 Steinway Grand hosting the jazz improvisational prodigy of the decade. You close your eyes, and you can see the past.

Kang Taejun ain't ever heard a voice like that. Not even in his dreams. Struck by stars, he is. Eyes fixed on the dame.

Thunder Beast and the spider move slowly, through molasses. Keep inconspicuous as the dame sings on. Sings about barley wheat gone dry and skies gone black with ash. Sings about old wars and old days and old men buried beneath graves. Sings about the color of allegience, the color of loyalty. For Kouka, for Kouka, my heart to Thee.

Dame finishes, and there's silence. Ghost silence. Echoes on and on, that voice, pounding against the walls until it's a sliver of nothing.

Then the beast fires.

During the dame's performance, he and the spider done snuck behind the desk, gotten their hands on a sticking demolition in their packs. Now they fire that demolition up and forward. It clings against the ceiling, beeps twice.

Then.

_BOOM._

Structure collapses backwards, taking the remains of the ceiling with it. Whole room falls to ruins as the sky breaks open, pouring sun on the dame like a spotlight on stage. Flares the dame's silhouette like ice, glows like the moon. Hair burns as cold fire, shining brilliant enough to blind.

And from the heavens fall three dragons. Green. White. Blue. Land in an elegant crouch, gymnasts at their finals. Shooting stars that came to grant a wish of destruction.

"For Kouka," whispers the dame. Eyes ablaze. "For Kouka. My heart to Thee."


	5. Awa Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear dark dragon and his dear dark desires," Jaeha says. "Why, I shudder to think of what you might dream. Dare I guess that it has something to do with a little lace and a lot of—"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you thought that this story would never update, but it was ME! CHAPTER FIVE! THE WHOLE TIME!
> 
> ye. it's been a while. i literally worked on this chapter for a year. how embarrassing.
> 
> slow updates are mainly because i'm getting really busy with work schedule. (shameless self-plug: working on writing a visual novel called zodiac•axis. if you like supernatural bishies and lots of life-threatening endeavors, you might wanna check it out.)
> 
> anyways, because it's been so long, i thought i'd provide a synopsis, free of charge:
> 
> \- zeno was shot. and miraculously healed. awkward.  
> \- he was shot because the earth tribe and fire tribe were mad at each other.  
> \- they were mad at each other because the earth tribe found a letter that supposedly plotted treason.  
> \- except they think that the fire tribe forged that letter.  
> \- psych, that letter was actually forged by the water tribe, who want to start a war so they can profit off of selling weapons.  
> \- jaeha, shinah, and kija went to the earth tribe to confirm the rumor, while yona, hak, and zeno went digging around the fire tribe.  
> \- jaeha, shinah, and kija met the awa pirates to lobby an audience with the earth tribe, then headed to the fire tribe.  
> \- yona, hak, and zeno found a piece of paper that links shinah with the fire tribe.  
> \- and then they were surrounded by the fire tribe.  
> \- it was a trap.  
> \- the whole time.  
> \- they're screwed.  
> \- and then jaeha, shinah, and kija arrive and it might be a survivable fight.
> 
> enjoy. thank you so much for the reviews—you're all crazy encouraging!

**** Some people say that hell's broken loose to describe chaos. Wanton panic. Everything happening to everyone everywhere.

But this situation, this ain't hell. This is a storybook legend. A dame with flaming hair, flanked by five unparalleled warriors, standing amidst a ruin bathed in the blessing of the sun. Parents would tell their kids about that one. Grandparents, their grandkids.

Dust settles on the brand-new battlefield. Two dozen guns against six. Outcome of the match should be a no-brainer.

But as Kang Taejun raises his hand, as Kang Taejun prepares the signal to open fire, as Kang Taejun steels himself to fight legend—his eyes land on the shade in all black, the shade with piercing golden eyes that glint just barely beneath his luxury fedora.

And Kang Taejun falters.

“Cheong'ryong?” whispers he. Disbelieving. Like his eyes lie to him and his ears tell no truths.

Hitman stirs beneath his fedora, but says nothing. 

“It's... it's you, isn't it? Cheong'ryong?” Crack of vulnerability beneath that pale skin, that silver hair. “We thought you were... you were...”

Hitman only angles his pistols. Nothing but a cold steel wall in front of those golden eyes. Those are the eyes of a hunter. Someone ready to spill blood. Nothing nostalgic about it.

Taejun shuffles back. Spine goes rigid with understanding, with anger, with sorrow. There's a past lost somewhere in that shuffle. But it don't matter, not anymore.

“Brethren,” growls he, “it is time to lay these legends to dust.”

He raises his right hand.

And half the Fires collapse boneless to the ground.

Kang Taejun whips around, eyes frantic. “What is it?! Who's there?!”

But ain't nothing answering in the shadows. All that's left is one dozen Fires and the second son of Family Kang. Meanwhile, the dame and her demons—they haven't lifted a finger.

“There's got to be someone hiding,” whispers Taejun.

Silence for an answer.

“Cowards! Skulkers! Face us like men!” Taejun screeches. “Fire, brethren, fire at whatever breathes!”

The remaining Fires raise their arms as one, hiding any uncertainty behind iron masks developed from countless years. Dame's dragons move equally swift. Captain branches off to the right, Thunder Beast to the left, diplomat up high spreading double pistols for cover fire. Hitman melts backward into the rubble, striking like a viper at the edges of the Fires. Spider takes his place in front of the dame, on passive standby, rifle hoisted and ready to fire.

Bullets rip up the air like toucans on larvae. Place is already rent apart, falling to bits at the seams, but there's still more to break; smoke and fire with the iron clog of gore.

Captain reaches his target first. Breaks in close before the man has time to fire another bullet. Swings for a devastating haymaker as the man drops his gun and draws out an 11-incher, realizing that guns don't matter one bit at this range. Captain keeps up the assault, systematic. His enemy's the one with the knife, but he weaves like a serpent, slithering away from the blade with ease. Back-hand. Haymaker. Knife-hand. Cuts the man down to a whimpering mess with nothing but the strength of his palms. 

“Down!” growls the diplomat's voice from above him. And obediently the captain falls. No questions, yes sir. 

A bullet whistles over his head for it. Next sound is a guttural _crunch_ with a strangled cry. Captain reckons he's safe after that. 

But the captain don't have time to linger around and praise himself. Lunges on the next foe without so much a breather. Catches a glimpse of the Thunder Beast on the opposite end, knocking Fires down like dominos as the hitman melts through the shadows of the room, sniping at the edges. 

The Fires is all but extinguished. Downed for the round. Only one left, and his name is Kang Taejun. 

Dame is the one who walks to him, floating above the rubble, siren on a string. At that moment, she don't seem human. None of the Bunch do.

“Kang Taejun,” murmurs the dame.

Taejun squints up at her through the light, peering between his fingertips. 

“Who was the trap for?” the dame demands. “Earthers?”

Radio silence more than the radio. 

“Couldn't have been Earthers,” says the dame. “You would've known that they're not the type to skulk around. So... who was the trap for?”

“Yona dear, I don't think the man is going to talk,” says the diplomat casual. 

“Want me to make him talk?” growls the Thunder Beast.

Dame stoops to one knee with no reply. Angles her head forward; looks at Kang Taejun through hair of fire. 

“Answer me this, Kang Taejun,” says she. “The trap. Why was it laid?”

At last Kang Taejun opens his trap. Lips pop apart, pallid and foreign. 

“Princess,” whispers he.

Beat. 

Then the dame seizes the closest beam of wood and bangs his temple. 

All goes black for the Fire son. 

.

.

.

“How does he know?”

“Maybe he don't.”

“But maybe he does. Maybe he remembered. Or something. Maybe he went to one of the balls.”

“Ain't likely.”

“I know, I know. Fires in the Upper District. Not likely. But _what if_? He could tell the public. Former princess of Kouka, now an alley rat who mows down innocents. I'm not worried about a scandal, but imagine if the people—”

“—take that as some excuse to start popping off their own crimes?”

“Exactly. The Royal Family is the symbol of the city. Hak... I don't know what to do.”

“Calm your hands first.” Hak reaches over and grips Yona's slender fingers, which she's wringing like wet dishcloths. “Calm hands, calm mind. 'S what Gramps used to say.”

Yona's hands still tremble like leaves in his grasp. “I've never had this feeling before. People from the palace have tried to investigate, but... ”

“It's unexpected. Blind swing outta nowhere. Makes sense, Princess.”

“Let's kill him. ” She pauses. Tick tock. “No, no. Don't listen to me, I'm insane. If we kill him, we can't get answers.”

“If we kill him, it'll lie on your conscience,” Hak adds, studying her face. 

“I lost my conscience a long time ago,” says the dame. Soft. Quiet. Ain't harsh, ain't bitter. Just sad, a wistful lullaby dipped in melancholy. 

“Ain't so, Princess.” Hak's mouth turns upward. “Might have lost your brain, but never your conscience.”

Her eyes flash playfully, and her mouth pops open, ready to zap Hak with a light rebuke. But she pauses, she does. Finds her nose just a handspan away from his. Finds his breath angled over her jawline. Finds a tinge of softness in his gaze. An accident. A happy one. 

She breathes sharp, gentle, a high-pitched sound that sings nervousness louder than nightingales in a mountain dawn. 

And Hak lets go, lets go quick. Leaves her hands cold. He steps back broad, a good three meter distance, slipping his wrists into his pockets. Just like that, there's a silent wall buildin' up. Yona ain't ever felt a wall so thick. Not from Hak. 

“Hak?” says she. 

Hak turns to the door. “Won't do any good pacing and fretting. You just gotta talk to the man.”

She takes his sleeve. He stiffens. “Hak, what just happened?” says she, deliberate. 

Hak don't look at her. He stares ahead, dark eyes as unreadable as a doctor's scrawl. 

“Nothing,” says he. Heavy. Like he's talking to himself more than her. “Nothing happened.”

And out he walks, outta the office of Gigan and into the main parlor of the Awa Pirates. 

.

.

.

Thunder Beast knows Kang Taejun's thoughts, knows 'em well. 

How, asks you? Simple. He's thought 'em himself. 

Used to hate the dame, he did. Once upon a time. Those was back in the days when the dame was in her long-tailed mauve dress on the stage of the Parisian Cantina, glittering like a thousand starfish outta the ocean waves. Back in the days when she sang husky tears, piercing the hearts of her audience. Back in the days when the Thunder Beast was at her side only to obey orders. 

In those days, the Thunder Beast looked at the dame and felt, beneath his bones and marrow, to his utter core, hatred, anger, resentment. 

_Your fault,_ said he, back in those days when no one could hear, when his only company was walls and ceilings and the ratty old crates of the Parisian Cantina's upper boarding room. 

How he hated her so. More than he done ever hate anyone. 

But that hatred changes over a time. Thunder Beast starts understanding his orders, following because he sees the reason. Stops looking at that mauve dress and wishing he could burn its wearer. Stops ballooning with resentment that consumes him.

All comes to a head on a stormy night. 

Thunder Beast was sleeping in the dame's room at the time. Always did, every night. Those were his orders. Stay with the dame, keep her safe, twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week. That included when she slept in that upper boarding room of the Parisian Cantina, a room spacious and cozy and built special for Dusk the singer.

It was pouring outdoors, pouring like Kouka ain't ever seen before. Sleet on panes, roads washed up with water five handspans tall, lights flickering on and off like the dirge of a dying firefly. Nothing but howling gale out in the streets. Thunder Beast don't care much. Storms ain't the stuff of nightmares when you're used to being shot at. 

But surprise. He's just lying on his side, snoozing away, when he feels a little tug at his sleeve. 

Slim little fingers wrap around his pinky, just his pinky, pulling it away from the warmth of his hand. 

A month ago, Thunder Beast would have drawn out his pistol. Would have stuck it under the dame's chin, seizing this chance to give her a little scare. 

Not so, not tonight. 

“Princess?” queries he. Once a mockery of a nickname. No longer. 

Only gets the push of a soft head into his shoulderblades for a response. 

He startles a bit. Turns around. Dame is huddled in her blankets, eyes squeezed shut. Looks like a little lamb, all out on her own. 

Thunder Beast reaches out and runs his fingers gentle through her hair. Don't understand why he does it. Just does. 

“What is it,” says he gruff. “Ghost? Clown? Monster in your closet?”

He gone too long mocking her to know what else to do. 

She breathes deep. Shudders. Broken. Just a girl of fifteen years, nothing more. Not meant to be standing on a bar stage in a mauve dress, singing silky tunes 'bout nighttime between a man and a woman.

“You're alive,” she whispers. 

Nestles her head in the crook of his neck. Thunder Beast goes still. 

Starts feeling something that he don't understand. 

“What are you doing,” he says flatly. 

“It was raining like this,” dame says. Wispy, barely there. “I dreamed it was raining like this, and I was standing in the middle of it.”

“Did you catch a cold.”

She ignores his mockery. Grace and forgiveness incarnate, if only because he's her lone company outside of bar folk. “It was dark. All I could see was the shine of rain. The cement was glassy.”

His hand's still running absent-like through her hair. He can't bring himself to stop. “And?”

“I called out for someone, anyone. No one was there.” She grips tighter. “So I started running. Looking for someone.”

“Your mommy?”

“I found you.”

His hand stills. 

“You were drenched in blood.”

“My own?”

“Yes. ”

Not the blood of his enemies. His own. He done been bested in her dream. 

“Ain't gonna happen, Princess.”

“It was on a night exactly like this.”

“Ain't ever gonna happen.”

“You were still alive, but you were so badly hurt... You couldn't even talk, because you were in so much pain. And... and everything was red... Someone was laughing in the distance, saying they were unstoppable...”

He pushes his forehead against hers. Eyes narrow like a snake. Means to intimidate her. 

“Ain't gonna happen. Now go to sleep and stop talkin' horserot.”

Talks rough, 'cus he don't know any other way with the dame. 

So the dame closes her eyes. Rests against him. He'd meant for her to return to her own bed, but here she is, casually sleeping on his cot. 

But he don't wake her. He don't prod her back to bed. Just looks at her face as wind howls on the panes and the skies cry floods on the roads. 

She's beautiful, she is. Fair skin, vibrant hair. Large eyes. Doelike. Heart for a chin and smooth porcelain skin stretched over her slender frame. But what catches his attention are her cheeks. They glimmer silver in the faint light that bleeds through the window. He touches them. Wet. 

Stars, she was crying. Crying for him. 

All he done ever was tease her and hate her, and she cried for him. Cried for his blood and pain just because she's nice. 

That's the day when he realizes. 

Princess, she is. Ain't no better word for it. 

.

.

.

Headquarters of the Awa Pirates is posh and polished. Stuck right in the center of the Upper District. Its parlor seats a few dozen in cherry-picked silken cushions. Four dozen, to be exact. Half of one dozen is taken up by the dame and her demons. The rest, the other two-and-forty chairs, is all housing a long or short or skinny or fat Pirate of Awa.

Gigan's in the center. Straight in the center. Tall-backed and elegant, sipping a cup of tea like she's in the palace downstream. There's a cup in front of the dame, too, but it's barely touched. 

Gigan wipes her mouth. Thousand-thread handkerchief. Places her tea away, clears the table. 

“A game, Godmother?” says Gigan.

“I'm not much for them,” says the dame.

Gigan smiles wry. “Gents in the casino don't play poker for their own fun, Godmother.”

She reaches under the table. Two revolvers, black like gleaming coal. 

“They play for the money,” says she. 

Instinctive, it is. The Bunch moves like butter. Beast at the back. Spider at the front. Hitman at the left. Captain at the right. Only the diplomat stays plumb where he is. 

Gigan raises a brow. Just one. “At ease. A game, I said.”

She lays one revolver on the tea table. Dame takes it. 

The Bunch steps away, but they already crackling with tension. All except the diplomat. And the diplomat—even he done look uncertain. 

“What do you suggest?” says the dame. Porcelain fingers, princess's fingers, curl up 'round the grip. 

Gigan slips a bullet. Spins the barrel. Cracks it in place with a flick of the wrist. 

_Click._ Ominous. 

“Red Roulette.”

Chill falls over the room, crow's feathers over a public park. Down goes the temperature. 

“What's the reward?” says the dame quiet-like.

“You know what it is,” says Gigan. 

And the dame does. Dame ain't dull. 

“We play with a twist,” says Gigan. “Point the gun at any man you'd like. Anywhere on that man, so much as the whole bullet hits him. No skims. Clean. Knees, elbows, hands, feet, brain if you secretly want him dead.”

Dame goes still, real still. 

“You mean...”

“The gun doesn't have to be aimed at yourself.”

Dame's eyes waver to the Bunch. Stone-faced, they all is. The spider's forward a bit more prominent, like he's offering himself up. No fear in them. 

“Oh,” says the dame softly. 

“I'll go first.” Gigan cocks her burner. Takes aim. Random gent by the doorway's her target—he's big, bulky, scars riddled up bulging arms. Clear as a shoeshined monocle that he knows a thing or two about pain. 

Gigan fires. 

_Click._

Harmless. 

“Well. Lady Luck's smiling.” Gigan nods at the dame. “Move's on you.”

Dame is still. Still as the moon, the moon that likes to gaze calm over butter-churned oceans. She don't raise her revolver; just looks. Turns and looks at the Bunch. 

“Don't worry, miss.” Zeno shuffles forward. Breaks outta line. “It will be fine.”

Dame's eyelid flinches.

“Miss,” says Zeno, “it will be fine.”

“Will it?” whispers the dame. 

“Always,” says Zeno.

Dame's fingers twitch slight over her revolver. Just a fraction of a millimeter. Some ordinary man wouldn't have known, wouldn't have known one bit. Too bad that parlor ain't full of ordinary men. 

“Good,” says she. 

And quick as a breath, the dame whips that revolver up right in line with her own leg and fires. 

Thunder Beast twitches in place. Eyes spark like black lightning, but the deed's already done. 

_Click._ No bullet. 

Dame lowers the gun. Stone-faced.

Gigan raises a brow. Just one. “Love risk, do you?”

“No. I rather hate it.”

“Your actions say otherwise.” Gigan cocks her own burner. Swivels to a different man. Fires. _Click,_ again. 

“I don't like to leave things to chance.”

“Then?”

Dame is silent for a spell. Gigan stares her down, eye-to-eye. 

“Because,” says the dame, cold and warm and wispy and firm and ten other paradoxes all at once, “I would rather die than hurt one of my own.”

Brings the gun clear down to her leg. 

_BANG._

.

.

.

The Awa Pirates. They ain't a big Family in Kouka, not by a long shot. Most civvies don't even know they exist. 

They didn't start with the five major Families—Fires, Earthers, Wats, Skies, Windies. No, sir. They was started years and years later, recent, just in the time of 1894. A new Family by Kouka's standards. 

Why, how, who, what, when?

All you need to know is that Gigan, once twenty-five years old and spry as a young chicken, suffered a loss. Two, in fact. One to trafficking and one to nadai. It was enough. Enough for her to leave her roots and start a motley band called the Awa Pirates. Those Pirates would sail the lowdown streets. Ain't cargoes they done commandeered, but nadai chains, traffic kingpins. 

But that don't matter no more. Maybe it never did. 

.

.

.

Meanwhile. In a time more present. 

_BANG,_ there was. Right in the parlor of the Awa Pirates' headquarters, a big _BANG._

That ain't a good sound when playing Red Roulette. _Bang_ means that someone's organs are littered around the floor. _Bang_ means that there's a mess of blood and bone to clean up. 

But. 

Ain't the dame's barrel that's smoking. 

There stands Gigan, revolver stretched out, finger clamped against the trigger, and—barrel smoking like a grandpa's old pipette. And the bullet she'd fired? 

Shot the gun out of the dame's own hand. 

Dame's weapon clatters to the tile. Gigan drops her own. Another clatter.

“You're brave more than you're smart,” Gigan says. “You won't live long.”

Dame don't flinch. “But I'll live well.”

A little pause runs up the walls like a nest of rats. 

“You will,” says Gigan soft. “You'll live very well.”

And the air relaxes. 

Gigan sweeps up. Regal grandmother, she is, draped in fine robes and poised like a swan. 

“Welcome, Godmother,” says she. Bows. Hard-earned respect bending that back. “You've earned the allegiance of the Awa Pirates.”

.

.

.

Red Roulette ain't a game, but a test. 

From the looks of it, the dame won. 

.

.

.

They trod back to the Harborough Cauldron, to home. Faces is dark and uneasy, glowering holes into the cement. Yona sees this. 

“Okay, everyone,” she says clearly, “I can tell that something's going on. So talk to me.”

Jaeha chuckles. Hint of steel. “My, my, Yona dear. Our deepest, darkest secrets? Shouldn't that be reserved for a cheery little slumber party?”

Yona's glare is genuine. “You know what I mean. I don't want any beating around the bush, either.”

The dragons halt. Stiff suits and stiffer hats. Every pair of eyes turns to Hak, the Hak who's shouldering a Fire son's comatose body over his broad shoulders. 

“What,” Hak says brusque, “you expect me to do everything?”

“Precisely, dear beast,” says Jaeha. 

“No.” Hak jerks his head. “Zeno. You deal with it.”

“Zeno needs a meal before Zeno can talk~”

“Zeno.”

“Then Kija can!” Zeno sings. Slaps Kija on the back. 

Kija balks. “Why me?”

“Because Zeno is older~”

“Yeah, that's likely. How old can you be with a face like that?”

Zeno only skips off. Pat-pat, pat-pat, carelessly, carefully asynchronous. Kija looks Yona, mouth dry. 

“Well... see, Yona... I guess that we're all... a bit upset about Red Roulette.”

Shinah nods, stoic.

“I couldn't have shot any of you,” Yona argues. “You know I couldn't.”

“Why not?” says Kija gravely. 

Yona stills. Unexpected gravity where she don't expect it. 

“What are you—I just couldn't!”

“You have to.” Kija turns. Faces her front-on. “Yona. Consider yourself the queen. You're not just another fighter, not like me, or Jaeha, or Hak. You're the morale. The centerpiece. If you fall, the troops are routed.”

“The queen has to lead.”

“No. That's the general's job. Or the captain's job.” Kija's eyes are serious. Still. Red Roulette shook him up, and then some. “The queen is the figure of hope. Above all, she must stay alive. She orders the captain, and the captain will lead the other troops.”

Yona's eyes flare. “You're not just troops. You're my family.”

Kija looks at her, looks with something that makes her feel cold and sad inside, like she can take on his emotions and make them her own. 

“And you're our family too,” he whispers. “So can't you imagine how we felt? You could have been gravely wounded at any moment, and we would have been helpless. Utterly helpless.”

Just the thought seems to chill him deep, 'cus he shudders, shudders like a foal in first frost, and scampers after Zeno. And the Bunch walks on. Only one left is the Thunder Beast

“Hak, are you angry?” says Yona softly. 

Thunder Beast bows his head. “Never, Princess.”

“Then... why this?”

Raises his head. His eyes is blank. “Why what?”

Ain't no sass in those eyes, no acerbic wit. They empty. All empty. 

Yona recoils, a child's windup toy. “Hak... what's wrong?”

“Don't get your meaning, Princess.” He breathes quiet, gentle. “All's as it should be.”

Turns and floats away. Floats like a beast, floats like thunder in the sky. Yona watches him go. Watches with unshed tears in her eyes and she don't even know why. 

.

.

.

Mama Yun's about ready to blow his lid when they traipse into the Den. They was late, he screams, way past late, and all the food's gone cold as ice, and what do they have to say for themselves. The Bunch mumble about a trap in the Fire den and a big fight and a game of Red Roulette with new allegiances, new allies. Mama Yun only lobs 'em with riceballs. An odd habit he picked up in the past years: spinning nervousness into riceballs.

Yona's eyes rest quiet on Hak, who takes up a riceball and finds his perch in the opposite corner of the Den. He don't look at her, not once. Not like she ain't there. But like she is, and it's to his great misfortune. 

She swallows. Rice sticky in her throat. 

"You look... distressed."

Shinah sits next to her in elegance and a flutter of cloak. Angel of death, some might say. 'Cept he's cupping a riceball in two hands like a newborn squirrel, munching in tiny bits. 

Yona shakes her head, shakes her thoughts. "Shinah."

He tilts his head. Listening. 

Yona considers for a moment. "When we were at the Fire den... we saw something."

Shinah's munching stills. 

Yona turns to face him squarely. 

"Subject 0018," she whispers. "Hair: blue. Eyes: bright gold—atypical; investigation pending. Top candidate. Specialty: assassination. Successful missions: 28."

He lowers his riceball. 

"Whereabouts: MIA." She swallows. "Search Priority: very high."

He's quiet. 

One moment, two. In the background, some green dragon lazies over a game of poker with some yellow dragon. Tries to strip when the cards don't go his way, but the mama only throws heaps and heaps of blankets on him, saying that he gonna catch himself a cold. 

And Shinah breathes. 

"My name," says Shinah soft, soft as a dove's lullaby, "was once Cheong'ryong."

"The Blue Dragon?"

"Because of my hair." 

His hand, slim and pale and tangible death, raises his hat. Yona catches a glimpse of gold eyes. They pierce, they do, in all their strangeness and fantasy flair. But she don't flinch. She ain't ever flinched, not at his eyes. 

"The Fires... have a Program."

"The one where every Family member is trained extensively in combat?" Fire Tribe ain't nothing if not obsessed with fighting.

"This was a special one. For children. We... were to be trained from an early age. Always better to start early. Some were Fire-born. Some were kids off the street, but only the ones with potential. The brutal ones. The bitter ones. The... ones who would do anything to survive."

He pauses. His breath shakes. 

"I... joined them. I asked to join."

"Why?" Yona whispers. No judgment, no anger. Just a pinch of sadness, 'cus she knows, knows even if she don't want to. 

"I was hungry," says Shinah.

Too many children was hungry in the Lower. 

"How old were you?"

"Seven." The response, immediate, pragmatic. "That was when... my guardian passed away."

Tears well up in Yona's eyes. Spill over her cheeks, stray raindrops. “Oh, Shinah.”

"Why do you cry?" Shinah touches her cheek. "Don't cry. They fed me, they gave me a place to sleep."

"That's how you met Taejun?"

"I... was trained alongside Taejun."

She wipes her face. He continues. 

"The first session of the Program was a... placement exam. After a few days of being fed and rested, the children... would run through a series of tests. Their specialties would be noted. Brute force... manipulation... sabotage. The Fires created an elite task force... that could cripple any of the other Tribes in a matter of days."

"They haven't used it?"

"Few were successful. Some died from training accidents. Some went missing in missions. Some... didn't live up to their potential. Some were too reckless, or too stubborn, or wouldn't listen to orders." Shinah stills. "Even Taejun was eventually excused."

"But he became a captain."

"We ranked higher than captains. Second to the Fire godfather himself. And... there were only three of us. Kang Kyoga, the perfect strategist. Se Danso, the perfect spy. And me... Cheong'ryong, the perfect assassin."

She quiets. 

"They said I was silent. That was my main asset. My footsteps were never heard. And then—I was deadly accurate. When I was a child, my guardian often told me that there is no need for ten strikes; just one, if you know where to put it. I took it to heart, and it showed. So... they turned me into the perfect hitman."

“I never knew,” Yona says.

Shinah only looks at her, all lingering and sad.

_I never you wanted to,_ says his eyes.

.

.

.

Time to track back, down ten years to the Kouka of 1914. 

There’s an adolescent boy who stalks into the Parisian Cantina. He glides like oil on water, shadows on moonlight. Fifteen years old, lithe and lanky with sky-blue for hair and glint-gold eyes hidden beneath his luxury fedora. He’s young, but there’s already twenty-five notches on his record; twenty-five successful hits on persons that the Fires couldn’t afford to keep alive. Twenty-five missions in the two years since his training done been completed. A record of Fire hits.

The boy slips into the Cantina. None pays much heed to him. Hard to get attention when you’re dressed all dark and work to blend in with the walls. He waits there, waits in the corner, perfect still, like he ain’t nothing but another part of the wallpaper. Counts down the time until his mark—mark number twenty-six—walks through that unfortunate door.

Then the music. Oh, the music.

At the piano ain’t Minsoo, the jazz improvisational prodigy of the century, but it’s sure someone decent. He starts playing something slow, melancholy. Opening chords to paint the field for the singer taking center stage: a girl of fourteen years dressed in sequins and ridiculous feathers, much too mature for the teaspoons of baby fat still stuck in her cheeks. Her voice shakes on the opening strain and her eyes dart back, back to a cross-armed, angry Thunder Beast glowering at her behind the stage. But still she sings. The tune is lilting and haunting and the boy named Cheong’ryong looks up with the barest motion.

Her tone is mourning. O seas above and skies below, you see the dragon fly; give raise to voice and hat to hold, for night is ever nigh; and down the alleys and the moors, may sweet love ever cry; for this eve and this eve alone, my sweet love lady died.

The notes strike his heart and he mouths the words, mouths ‘em like he’s known em, mouths ‘em like he’s breathed them over and over. He hears something in the shades of his memory, where a ferocious man with a mane for hair dwells quietly.

“Ao,” he whispers.

His mark enters the bar. Eats. Drinks. Leaves. Unscathed, without any bullet to his brain. Still the boy stands in the corner, rapt and turned to stone.

And that. That was the first and last failure of Cheong’ryong.

That was the beginning of his end.

.

.

.

“I say we duck out of this whole mess,” says Kija. “The entire affair is blowing out of proportion. I don't think we want to be caught in a crossfire of this scale. Besides, if we help the Wats, their leadership will never learn to pay the consequences for their actions.”

"But this is far beyond the Underground," says Jaeha. Rare moment of gravity for him; ain't no smile on that face of his. "Geuntae's definitely got a dangerous weapon up his sleeve. Something explosive. Something that would affect the Lower, even the Middle, or the Upper. All of Kouka. We're talking big numbers, most of them innocents."

"The Big Bombs are under tight government control. Influence or no influence, Geuntae would never have the chance to fire one."

"You don't need a Big Bomb to make a big bomb."

Yona raises her hand. Their argument fades. 

"Give me a moment to think," says she. 

They do. Five moments, in fact. 

"Alright," says Yona, "in this case, I think it'd be better to consider the options that are simply out of the question."

"Getting involved."

"Not getting involved."

Captain and diplomat exchange glares. 

Yona sighs. "Kija, in this case, I don't think it's possible to completely remove ourselves. The Lower may hold many different Families, but it's hard to deny that we're all connected. This is beyond an average gang war. I don't know what the Water Tribe said in that letter, but I've never seen Geuntae so bent on destruction. He's usually passionate, but still insightful. Not... blindsided like this."

"I can imagine the letter's contents quite well," Jaeha says lilting. "Can't you, Hak?"

"Hak?" Yona echoes. "Why Hak?"

"Dear dark dragon and his dear dark desires," Jaeha says. "Why, I shudder to think of what you might dream. Dare I guess that it has something to do with a little lace and a lot of—"

A fist comes flying. Diplomat goes down. 

"Hak!" Yona gasps. 

"Don't know what he's talking about."

"But you punched him!"

"I was fixing up his face." He looks at the diplomat. "Actually. It could still use some work."

"Ohh, I see how it is." Jaeha's tone is brimming glee. "I see, I see so clearly. They don't call you the Thunder _Beast_ for nothing, do they?"

Thunder Beast flies forward and diplomat runs back and the spider steps in between. His face is fixed, brows straight and serious.

"Enough, you two. The young miss needs us to be focused. This is a very difficult situation."

Hak sits glum-like and Jaeha straightens. 

"Then allow me to make a suggestion, Yona dear. Let's use this to our advantage."

"Advantage?" Kija says. "What kind of advantage can we possibly get from this situation?"

“Let's say that someone _did_ forge the correspondence. But it wasn't the Wats.” He looks to the dame. “Do you remember what you told us, darling?”

Her face dawns. “That I wanted to ease the suffering of Kouka.”

“Which currently involves?”

“Weeding out the internal corruption of the government.”

“Therefore.”

Silence with a tinge of horror.

“We blame the government for forging the correspondence and use the Tribes’ anger to unite against them.”

Kija swallows. Shinah raises his head. Jaeha smiles grim.

“Just so.”

“That’s asking for a full-on coup, Jaeha.”

“What’s wrong with a coup if the government is never representing the People, my dear?”

“It’ll bathe this city in blood.”

“Bloodshed is going to happen no matter what, dear Yona.” His smile is softer. Sadder. “And if it’s going to happen, then we might as well use it… oughtn’t we?”

She breathes, shaky.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. “I’m scared that something terrible will happen.”

“It will. But less terrible than the alternative.”

“If we make this decision, Jaeha, the consequences are solely _our_ responsibility. We can’t wash our hands of the matter.”

“Yona dear, it was the responsibility of the Wats, and they decided to dump it on you. Rather unceremoniously, at that.”

“And that’s why. That’s why this choice is so important. Because it stops becoming the Wats’, and it becomes _ours._ ” Yona paces, back and forth and back. “If we tell the truth, then the Water Tribe will be completely eradicated from the foolish decision of one leader. If we do nothing, then the Fires and the Earthers will be at each other’s throats, harming countless innocents in the process. If we blame the government, the whole city gets immersed in a coup and all structure and order will disintegrate.”

She lowers her head. Covers her eyes with her palms.

“There’s no good decision. There’s never any good decision. I… I can’t.”

She starts to break at the seams. Mama Yun hunches next to her, rubs her back. He’s always quiet when it comes to political discussions, but that don’t stop him from caring.

Thunder Beast looks at her from afar, face unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” Jaeha murmurs. “Just forget about it, Yona. Forget I even said anything.”

“No… no.” She gasps for steadiness, straightens. “No. Jaeha. You’re right. You’re… right.”

They wait off-kilter.

“There’s only one outcome where we might—just maybe—get something positive.” She breathes. “Jaeha, get a conference with Geuntae. And for the Fires… Zeno, wake Taejun. I’m going to ask him a few questions, and then we’re going to send him back.”

They mobilize, moving swift and sure like skater bugs on a lake. Yona looks to the pile of wilting petals trashed in the corner.

“Suwon,” she whispers. “I hope you’re ready.”


End file.
